Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Nicholson & Lee, eds. The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse. 1917.

Richard Watson Dixon (1833–1900)

157. Rapture: An Ode

WHAT is this?

The white and crumbling clouds leave bare the blue;

Shines out the central sun with golden hue;

And all the fruit-trees, rolling blossom-boughed,

Are white and billowy as the rolling cloud.

The warm beam bedded sleeps upon the trees,

The springing thickets and the gorse-bound leas;

Sleeps where I lie at ease,

Pulling the ruby orchis and the pale

Half-withered cowslip from the hill-side grass,

Midway the brow that overhangs the vale,

Where the sleepy shadows pass,

And the sunbeam sleeps till all is grown

Into one burning sapphire stone,

All air, all earth, each violet-deepened zone.

It sleeps and broods upon the moss-mapped stone,

The thready mosses and the plumy weeds;

Numbers the veined flowers one after one,

Their colours and their leaves and ripening seeds:

Above, around, its influence proceeds;

It tracks in gleams the stream through crowding bush,

And beds of sworded flags and bearded rush,

Where slow it creeps along the lower ground;

The ridges far above are all embrowned,

The golden heavens over all are ploughed

In furrows of fine tissue that abound,

And melting fragments of the whitest cloud.

Ah, what is this, that now with sated eyes

And humming ears the soul no more descries?

Drawn back upon the spirit all the sense

Becomes intelligence;

And to be doubly now unfolded feels

That which itself reveals;

Double the world of all that may appear

To eye or hand or ear;

Double the soul of that which apprehends

By that which sense transcends.

For deep the cave of human consciousness;

The thoughts, like light, upon its depths may press,

Seeking and finding wonders numberless;

But never may they altogether pierce

The hollow gloom so sensitive and fierce

Of the deep bosom: far the light may reach,

There is a depth unreached; in clearest speech

There is an echo from an unknown place:

And in the dim, unknown, untrodden space

Our life is hidden; were we all self-known,

No longer should we live; a wonder shown

Is wonderful no more; and being flies

For ever from its own self-scrutinies.

Here is the very effort of the soul

To keep itself unmingled, safe, and whole

In changes and the flitting feints of sense:

Here essence holds a calm and sure defence;

It is a guarded shrine and sacred grove,

A fountain hidden where no foot may rove,

A further depth within a sounded sea;

A mirror ’tis from hour to hour left free

By things reflected: and because ’tis so,

Therefore the outer world and all its show

Is as the music of the upper wave

To the deep Ocean in his sunken cave;

A part of its own self, yet but its play,

Which doth the sunbeam and the cloud convey

To central deeps, where in awful shade

The stormless heart receives the things conveyed,

Knowing the cloud by darkness, and the light

By splendours dying through the infinite.

And being such the soul doth recognize

The doubleness of nature, that there lies

A soul occult in Nature, hidden deep

As lies the soul of man in moveless sleep.

And like a dream

Broken in circumstance and foolish made,

Through which howe’er the future world doth gleam,

And floats a warning to the gathered thought,

Like to a dream,

Through sense and all by sense conveyed,

Into our soul the shadow of that soul

Doth float.

Then are we lifted up erect and whole

In vast confession to that universe

Perceived by us: our soul itself transfers

Thither by instinct sure; it swiftly hails

The mighty spirit similar; it sails

In the divine expansion; it perceives

Tendencies glorious, distant; it enweaves

Itself with excitations more that thought

Unto that soul unveiled and yet unsought.

Ye winds and clouds of light,

Ye lead the soul to God;

The new-born soul that height

With rapturous foot hath trod,

And is received of God:

God doth the soul receive

Which mounts toward Him, and alone would dwell

With Him; though finite with the Infinite,

Though finite, rising with a might

Like to infinitude.

Gently receiving such He doth dispel

All solitary horror with delight,

Honouring the higher mood.

For though the soul pants with fierce ecstasy

The unattainable to grasp, to be

For ever mingled with infinity;

And this in vain, since God Himself withdraws

From human knowledge, e’en as its own laws

Seclude the soul from sense;

Yet not from love He hies;

From love God never flies.

Love is the soul’s best sense, which God descries

Which bares the covert of intelligence:

And, honouring in love the higher mood,

With lovely joys He fills the solitude

Of His own presence, whither trusting Him

The soul hath mounted: lo, it might have found

Utter destruction on this higher ground,

Tenuity of air and swooning dim

For lack of breath; but now it finds hereby

A lovely vesture of infinity,

And ecstasies that nourish ecstasy.

God giveth love to love, and ministers

Substance to substance; life to life He bears.

Therefore, ye winds and ye

High moving clouds of light,

Ye rivers running free,

Thou glory of the sea,

Thou glory of the height,

The gleam beside the bush,

The tremble of the rush,

To me made manifest,

The beauty of the flower

In summer’s sunny power,

Portions of entity supreme ye be,

And motions massed upon eternal rest.

Broad breezes, clouds of light,

Thither ye lead the soul,

To this most sacred height

Above the sacred whole:

The azure world is not so fair,

The azure world and all the circling air,

As that true spiritual kingdom known

Unto the spirit only and alone;

Thither the soul ye bear,

Oh winds and clouds of light.

Ye winds and clouds of light,

That bear the soul to God;

The new-born soul that height

By ecstasy hath trod.