Here A Still Field

Here a still field. I move within the green, It lies aloof. Look where I will The steady glory of noon on the hill Lays its divine indifference on the scene. I seem too far. I listen and I lean, Yet never will the burying hours fulfill One hope of nearness to the Far and Still, But wound me with the sweet that they might mean.

Is there no keener speech for us than this Old incommunicable urge to know The speech of silence.... Yes--here a still field! What more--what more? For here the Comrade is, The God who waits alone and would have sealed Our compact with glad laughter long ago.