At Home from Church
The lilacs lift in generous bloom
Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers;
Their fragrance fills the still old house
Where left alone I count the hours.
High in the apple-trees the bees
Are humming, busy in the sun,—
An idle robin cries for rain
But once or twice and then is done.
The Sunday-morning quiet holds
In heavy slumber all the street,
While from the church, just out of sight
Behind the elms, comes slow and sweet
The organ’s drone, the voices faint
That sing the quaint long-meter hymn—
I somehow feel as if shut out
From some mysterious temple, dim
And beautiful with blue and red
And golden lights from windows high,
Where angels in the shadows stand
And earth seems very near the sky.
The day-dream fades—and so I try
Again to catch the tune that brings
No thought of temple nor of priest,
But only of a voice that sings.
Source: American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century (The Library of America, 1993)