Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay; A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day — When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
My wife said, as we talked of it together, It seemed as if some of our old farm weather Had got tired of the sober hills of brown, Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!
We went to church, and heard a sermon preached, Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached, And lifted us up toward the town divine, Till we could almost see the steeples shine,
And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled Along the massive turnpikes made of gold. We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true It made me think of every flower I knew;
And when, with benediction, the old pastor Said “Good-bye” for himself, but not his master, It put my resolution to the rack, To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!
We tried to come straight out, as Christians should, And bring away all of it that we could; But there were certain persons there to-day, Who, after church was over, clogged the way,
And, standing‘ round, with worldly nods and smiles, Held a week-day reception in the aisles. Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame, He wants to get home safely with the same;
And hates through jostling gossipers to walk, And stumble‘ gainst the smallest kinds of talk, Intended, by some power, his mind to bring Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing —
From office, and good methods to ensure it, To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it. These are the spires that were gleaming All through my juvenile dreaming;
Here the high belfries are singing: Gold invitations they're winging, Asking man through the charmed portal, Where he is once more immortal;
Where he may hide from his cares, Under a shelter of prayers. Why do these halls, high and broad, Under the same constant God,
Vary in structure and style — Differ, from chancel to aisle? Why forms and creeds so diverse? Why is my blessing your curse?
Pondering here on the street, This is one reason I meet: Man's brain is devious and strange — Differs, in form and in range;
So that God's fervid love-sun, Falling the same on each one, Differs in form and in hue, ( Not the less precious or true )!
Body and brain and heart — Temple of infinite art — You had no power to control Hues of your windows of soul!
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