Sometimes I go about in pity for myself
and all the while
A great wind is bearing me across the sky.

There are here, amidst this realm of fields, strips of dark ploughed land. 
They are empty and yet they lie here as though the bright stalks round 
about them were there for their sakes, rows of fencing for their 
protection. I asked what these dark acres were about. They told me:
“c’est de la terre en repos.” So lovely, you see, can rest be and thus it 
looks alongside work. Not disquieting, but gathering up a deep trust 
and the feeling of a rich time.