November 1

THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all;

Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray;

How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall;

How we grow weary plodding on the way;

Of future joy how present pain bereaves,

Rounding us with a dark of mere decay,

Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.