The lilacs in the sunshine lift
    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.