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.

Sarah Orne Jewett

A Country Boy in Winter

THE wind may blow the snow about,

  For all I care, says Jack,

And I don't mind how cold it grows,

  For then the ice won't crack.

Old folks may shiver all day long,

  But I shall never freeze;

What cares a jolly boy like me

  For winter days like these?

Far down the long snow-covered hills

  It is such fun to coast,

So clear the road! the fastest sled

  There is in school I boast.

The paint is pretty well worn off,

  But then I take the lead;

A dandy sled's a loiterer,

  And I go in for speed.

When I go home at supper-time,

  Ki! but my cheeks are red!

They burn and sting like anything;

  I'm cross until I'm fed.

You ought to see the biscuit go,

  I am so hungry then;

And old Aunt Polly says that boys

  Eat twice as much as men.

There's always something I can do

  To pass the time away;

The dark comes quick in winter-time--

  A short and stormy day

And when I give my mind to it,

  It's just as father says,

I almost do a man's work now,

  And help him many ways.

I shall be glad when I grow up

  And get all through with school,

I'll show them by-and-by that I

  Was not meant for a fool.

I'll take the crops off this old farm,

  I'll do the best I can.

A jolly boy like me won't be

  A dolt when he's a man.

I like to hear the old horse neigh

  Just as I come in sight,

The oxen poke me with their horns

  To get their hay at night.

Somehow the creatures seem like friends,

  And like to see me come.

Some fellows talk about New York,

  But I shall stay at home.

Sarah Orne Jewett

The Widows' House

     (At Bethlehem, Pennsylvania)

WHAT of this house with massive walls

  And small-paned windows, gay with blooms?

A quaint and ancient aspect falls

  Like pallid sunshine through the rooms.

Not this new country's rush and haste

  Could breed, one thinks, so still a life;

Here is the old Moravian home,

  A placid foe of strife.

For this roof covers, night and day,

  The widowed women poor and old,

The mated without mates, who say

  Their light is out, their story told.

To these the many mansions seem

  Dear household fires that cannot die;

They wait through separation dark

  An endless union by and by.

Each window has its watcher wan

  To fit the autumn afternoon,

The dropping poplar leaves, the dream

  Of spring that faded all too soon.

Upon the highest window-ledge

  A glowing scarlet flower shines down.

Oh, wistful sisterhood, whose home

  Has sanctified this quiet town!

Oh, hapless household, gather in

  The tired-hearted and the lone!

What broken homes, what sundered love,

  What disappointment you have known!

They count their little wealth of hope

  And spend their waiting days in peace,

What comfort their poor loneliness

  Must find in every soul's release!

And when the wailing trombones go

  Along the street before the dead

In that Moravian custom quaint,

  They smile because a soul has fled.

Sarah Orne Jewett