The Fields of Even

O STILLER than the fields that lie Beneath the morning heaven, And sweeter than day's gardens are The purple fields of even!

The vapor rises, silver-eyed, Leaving the dew-wet clover, With groping, mist-white hands outspread To greet the sky, her lover.

Ripples the brook, a thread of sound Close-woven through the quiet, Blending the jarring tones that day Would stir to noisy riot.

And all the glory seems so near A common man may win it— When every earth-bound lakelet holds A million stars within it.

A common man, who in the day Lifts not his eyes above him, Roaming the fields of even through May find a God to love him!