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!