In the Fields

Lord, when I look at lovely things which pass

Under old trees, the shadows of young leaves

Dancing to please the wind along the grass

Or the gold stillness of the August sun on the August sheaves

Can I believe there is a heavenlier world than this?

And if there is, will the strange heart of any everlasting thing

Bring me these dreams that take my breath away?

They come at evening with the home-flying rooks

And the scent of hay, over the fields, they come in spring