There is a field. I'll meet you there
And there the grass grows soft and whit
And there the sun burns crimson bright
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To the cool peppermint wind
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And a dark street wines and bends.
We shall walk with a walker that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go.
To the place out beyond ideas.
When the soul lies down in the grass, the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.
Yes will walk with a walk thats is measured and slow,
And will go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know.
The place out beyond ideas
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