Sabbath
Like sunrise through my heart the Sabbath breaks,
Welcome as if a week of night were done:
Even the day before feels like the streaks
That rise before the sun.
Not mine the Sabbatarian fears that quake
At week-day levity or week-day load;
Yet would I to my soul the Sabbath take,
And give it all to God.
In ways perhaps some creeds would count as sin —
Breaking the day they think they keep so whole —
With little outside ritual, but, within,
The Sabbath of the soul.
I would begin it while the morning star
Hangs in the green-blue dawn; when larks take wing,
And throstle-haunted gardens, near and far,
With warbling matins ring.
Live half a day before the day begins,
And forth to watch earth out of darkness creep;
Returning, find the city with its sins
In folds of burnish'd sleep.
Or give my fresh hours to some master-page;
The dramatist of every class and clime;
Or that new-ancient, Massachusetts' sage,
Whose thoughts are for all time.
All earth should be God's temple; but we build
Our little fanes, because they seem to draw
Heaven's beams the more into us, and thus yield
A closer sense of awe.
And so, yon chapel, with its noon-tide rays,
Its music, full free speech, and solemn prayers,
Should have my ripe hours of this day of days,
All free from worldly cares.
And then the home-joys of the slanting day,
The fireside gossip, or the garden walk,
The lounge at sunny doors, and children's play,
Mingled with graver talk.
Or, if day lengthen'd with a lingering wane,
Perhaps 'twould draw me to the whispering wood,
The time-recording shore, the moss-green lane,
Or moorland solitude.
And, far off, I would let the night close in,
Then home through fire-lit hamlets, roads pitch dark,
Catching at times the city's muffled din,
At times the watch-dog's bark.
Passing the wayside cottage, I should hear
The solitary cricket by the fire,
Or night-enchanted ducks make merry cheer,
Low dabbling in the mire.
The drear mysterious voices of the night
Would come into my spirit, there to be
Abiding dreams, and by some after-light
Waked into poesie.
For Nature, the musician, cannot err,
But, through some unpremeditated art,
Her vagrant notes are harmonies that stir
Unknown chords in the heart.
So, with a perfect touch, she blends the hues
Which we in pictures would discordant call:
An alchymy runs through her greens and blues,
And harmonizeth all.
Her sense of form rejects our petty rules,
Despises our proportions, yet retains
That majesty and beauty which our schools,
To reach have rack'd their brains.
If thus she greatly teaches eye and ear,
What fine philosophies may she not hint!
And intuitions from her inner sphere
Upon the soul imprint!
Therefore, while in this week-day world I live,
Whatever some theologies may say,
Unto the church of Nature I would give
Much of my Sabbath day.
Nor, from the earliest glimmer in the east,
All up the hours, would I a moment lose,
But fill each full, and draw my Sabbath feast
Out to a thankful close.
Welcome as if a week of night were done:
Even the day before feels like the streaks
That rise before the sun.
Not mine the Sabbatarian fears that quake
At week-day levity or week-day load;
Yet would I to my soul the Sabbath take,
And give it all to God.
In ways perhaps some creeds would count as sin —
Breaking the day they think they keep so whole —
With little outside ritual, but, within,
The Sabbath of the soul.
I would begin it while the morning star
Hangs in the green-blue dawn; when larks take wing,
And throstle-haunted gardens, near and far,
With warbling matins ring.
Live half a day before the day begins,
And forth to watch earth out of darkness creep;
Returning, find the city with its sins
In folds of burnish'd sleep.
Or give my fresh hours to some master-page;
The dramatist of every class and clime;
Or that new-ancient, Massachusetts' sage,
Whose thoughts are for all time.
All earth should be God's temple; but we build
Our little fanes, because they seem to draw
Heaven's beams the more into us, and thus yield
A closer sense of awe.
And so, yon chapel, with its noon-tide rays,
Its music, full free speech, and solemn prayers,
Should have my ripe hours of this day of days,
All free from worldly cares.
And then the home-joys of the slanting day,
The fireside gossip, or the garden walk,
The lounge at sunny doors, and children's play,
Mingled with graver talk.
Or, if day lengthen'd with a lingering wane,
Perhaps 'twould draw me to the whispering wood,
The time-recording shore, the moss-green lane,
Or moorland solitude.
And, far off, I would let the night close in,
Then home through fire-lit hamlets, roads pitch dark,
Catching at times the city's muffled din,
At times the watch-dog's bark.
Passing the wayside cottage, I should hear
The solitary cricket by the fire,
Or night-enchanted ducks make merry cheer,
Low dabbling in the mire.
The drear mysterious voices of the night
Would come into my spirit, there to be
Abiding dreams, and by some after-light
Waked into poesie.
For Nature, the musician, cannot err,
But, through some unpremeditated art,
Her vagrant notes are harmonies that stir
Unknown chords in the heart.
So, with a perfect touch, she blends the hues
Which we in pictures would discordant call:
An alchymy runs through her greens and blues,
And harmonizeth all.
Her sense of form rejects our petty rules,
Despises our proportions, yet retains
That majesty and beauty which our schools,
To reach have rack'd their brains.
If thus she greatly teaches eye and ear,
What fine philosophies may she not hint!
And intuitions from her inner sphere
Upon the soul imprint!
Therefore, while in this week-day world I live,
Whatever some theologies may say,
Unto the church of Nature I would give
Much of my Sabbath day.
Nor, from the earliest glimmer in the east,
All up the hours, would I a moment lose,
But fill each full, and draw my Sabbath feast
Out to a thankful close.
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