Poetry Month: Day 21

At Home from Church

By Sarah Orne Jewett
 

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.

I don't know why Sara Orne Jewett stayed home from church, but I know why I didn't go to church this morning.  I was at the IRA convention.  A few times today I thought, "Wow!  Today is Sunday!"  It's an odd feeling to someone who is used to Sunday being special, spent both in going to church and in relaxing at home.

I'm planning a post about the IRA sessions I attended once I get home and can reflect some.