Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers
Whose fragrance fills the silent 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 stillness 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-metre 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 or of priest,
But only of a voice that sings.
~Sarah Orne Jewett