The quiet of an open field,
Is no quiet quite at all,
But something more, something fuller,
It's the carried chatter of the birds,
The sliding of the wilding grass,
The transient wind which always seems to hang about such places -
I wonder why I ever filled it when I ought participate.

Silence has a lovely tone,
And depths in which few dare to tread,
The hubbub has its murmuring merits,
But silence and the little sounds...

Silence and the little sounds hold such weight,
In noisy days that seem to mound,
Mound and mound like weary walls,
And tower in their furious fever.

I wish to sit in silent times,
Dare I tread in those black waters?
Yes I dare in silent sound,
And tomorrow a little longer will I try.

Try to be less busy with it all,
And leave my work in churning fields,
All when the day is done.

Quietly now,
Rush off to the silent land,
And hush your merry twittering,
For the stillness of today will end by the morning,
And the dawn will kiss your eyelids awake.

So go quietly now,
Rush off to the formless place,
Where you shall see and unsee,
Laugh and unlaugh,
And leave your past in the author's hands,
Stepping onto the other pages.

Go quietly now, my child,
Drift off to the consoling warmth,
Its time to lay your failures to rest,
They don't follow you into the author's arms,
He has new lyrics for your heart,
And new dawns for your smile,
So leave them in the gentle waves.

He awaits you in the quiet place,
And holds out His arms with deft and grace,
To rap you up and make you smile,
To hold you close,
And still your restless heart.