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!