The Fields Of Even

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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!

© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay