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The Quiet Land
Men are not old here
Only the rocks are old, and the sheathing ice:
Only the restless sea, cha
ng the frozen land.
Ever moving, matched by the ceaselessly-circling sun.
Wild birds go wandering over the face of the snow;
Bright, swift, harsh-crying, strange and heedless.
Transient in time over the mountains,
As we are transient, strangers in an old land.
Man is not old here
Creeping upon the white, brilliant brow of the world.
Less than the birds, impeded and muf
ed by the snow.
Unheeded by the sun, rejected by the sea.
And stunned and stunted by the silence.
Lighten our darkness, oh Lord;
And lettest thou thy servants depart in peace.
For peace is here, here in the quiet land.
And, above all, the dream is here.
The dream of this that is above all else.
Braveness and light and space, and the everlasting morning.
For this time there will be no awakening, and no journey back.
Serenity is made whole and lucid;
This time the dream will never end.
The corner is turned: we can see over the brow.
We have sought and found, and it is the land that has yielded.
The mountains gleam golden as ever, but are suddenly near,
And the peace is too deep for words. The joy
Rings out in a great echoing cry from summit to summit,
Too great for declamation: the door is open
And the walls are
finally down.
To sleep here is to wake, and the resurrection
Lies in the passiveness of being one with the land.
Into the quiet land, dear Lord, we are delivered.
For here is peace, here in the quiet land.
frank debenham
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