Twenty-Third Sunday After Trinity

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Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
  The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crowned the eastern copse:  and chill and dun
  Falls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,
  And Echo hide good-night from every glade;
Yet wait awhile, and see the calm heaves float
  Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.

How like decaying life they seem to glide!
  And yet no second spring have they in store,
But where they fall, forgotten to abide
  Is all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,
  A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,
The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring,
  And all be vernal rapture as of old.

Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,
  In all the world of busy life around
No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky,
  No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man's portion is to die and rise again -
  Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part
With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain,
  As his when Eden held his virgin heart.

And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice
  Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life
Only the first renewed-the heathen's choice,
  A round of listless joy and weary strife.

For dreary were this earth, if earth were all,
  Tho' brightened oft by dear Affection's kiss; -
Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?
  But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss.

Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart,
  Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne
On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart
  O'er wave or field:  yet breezes laugh to scorn

Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven,
  And fish, living shafts that pierce the main,
And stars that shoot through freezing air at even -
  Who but would follow, might he break his chain?

And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm
  Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free
As his transfigured Lord with lightning form
  And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee,

When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn,
  And led through boundless air thy conquering road,
Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born,
  Might fearless follow to their blest abode.

But first, by many a stern and fiery blast
  The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine,
And many a gale of keenest woe be passed,
  Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,

Till every limb obey the mounting soul,
  The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given.
He who the stormy heart can so control,
  The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.

© John Keble