The speaker promises to wait for someone with a stillness that surpasses even death. They imagine death itself lying motionless for a thousand years in a freshly ploughed field that churns up old bones. That image is stark and unsettling—a farm field, a place of growth, is instead full of remains, hinting at a past that won’t stay buried. By linking their own patience to this, the speaker turns a simple act of waiting into something almost geological, as if their longing has fused with the earth.
The mood is heavy with devotion and a quiet melancholy. There’s no frustration, only a solemn, unshakeable resolve. The word “still” works doubly: motionless and continuing. Brief lines and the cold, grave imagery create a sense of time suspended—someone willing to halt their whole existence until the other returns, forever if necessary.