Red apples hang like globes of light
Against this pale November haze,
And now, although the mist is white,
In half-an-hour a day of days
Will climb into its golden height
And Sunday bells will ring its praise.
The sparkling flint, the darkling yew,
The red brick, less intensely red
Than hawthorn berries bright with dew
Or leaves of creeper still unshed,
The watery sky washed clean and new,
Are all rejoicing with the dead.
The yellowing elm shows yet some green,
The mellowing bells exultant sound:
Never have light and colour been
So prodigally thrown around;
And in the bells the promise tells
Of greater light where Love is found.