Thought of the day

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.


John Betjeman

Regent’s Park, London

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