Gospel of the Fields

Have you ever thought, my friend, As daily you toil and plod In the noisy paths of man, How still are the ways of God? Have you ever paused in the din Of traffic’s insistent cry To think of the calm in the cloud, Of the peace in your glimpse of sky? Go out in the growing fields That quietly yield you meat, And let them rebuke your noise Whose patience is still and sweet. They toil their æons—and we Who flutter back to their breast, A handful of clamorous clay, Forget their silence is best!