My introduction to English field names came through a chapter in George Ewart Evans's Ask the Fellows Who Cut the Hay (1956), a book about the now-vanished life of rural Suffolk. Much later, I came across the following poem by Clive Sansom (1910-1981). Perhaps the poem provides another approach to the topic of the wordlessness (but not silence) of the World -- and our own use of words as a response.
Our name-givers loved the World and loved the Word:
These two delights are only an ell apart.
Coupling, they gave birth to those field names
That map the earth in the language of the heart:
'Wooden Cabbage', 'Three Men's Field',
'Charity Bottom', 'Doom',
'Perrymans', 'God's Blessing Green',
'Fishponds' and 'Bramble Coomb'.
'Reddleman's', Bedlam', 'Dancing Hill',
'Troy Town', and 'Starvecrow Land',
'Lottery', 'Drummer's Castle', 'Fleet',
'Crocker's Knap', 'Flower-in-Hand'. . . .
Lavish as wildflowers in a Dorset hedgerow,
Fragrant as their names before the botanists came,
They startle the lawyers' deeds with their heart-language
And stake, in some fragment of England, their loving claim.
Clive Sansom, Dorset Village (1962).