---

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A Rhapsody
Work rating: Low

There is a God most surely in the heavens,
 Who smileth always, though His face be hid.
 And young Joy cometh as His messenger
 Upon the Earth, like to a rushing wind,
 Scattering the dead leaves of our discontent
 Ere yet we see him. Then he setteth us
 Upon his back and flieth to God`s presence,
 Till on our faces there is seen the light
 Which streameth from His brows for evermore.

 There is a God. Ay, by this breath of dawn,
 I swear there is a God, even here on Earth.
 And see, a blush upon the edge of heaven,
 Bearing me witness! There is something changed
 About these woods since yesterday; a look
 Of shame on Nature`s face; a consciousness
 In the bent flowers; a troubled tell--tale gleam
 On the lake`s brim. This morning, as I passed
 Over the lawn, there was an instant`s hush
 Among the trees, and then a whispering
 Which woke the birds; and of a sudden, lo!
 A thousand voices breathed conspiracy;
 And now a silence. There are listening ears
 In all these bushes waiting till I speak.

 There is a God. I swear it on the truth
 Of my new joy, which is not of the Earth,
 But grows within my hand, a thing of strength,
 A wonder to the Earth, whose old worn heart
 Has long been joyless. Listen, while I speak,
 Ye autumn woods. Ye ancient forest trees,
 Lend me your ears. Thou little brook, be still
 Till I have spoken, for I have a tale
 For the morning`s ear; and O! thou Nature`s voice,
 Be silent this one day and hear of joy
 Newer than thine. You friends whom I have loved,
 Listen, and stop me not with word or sign
 Till I have poured my heart into your ears,
 For if you spoke to me I should not hear,
 And if you wept with me I should not see,
 And if you mocked me I should not suspect,
 Being this day the fool of happiness.
 And all my blood is full of dancing motes;
 And in my brain are chords of silver tone
 Divinely struck to statelier harmonies
 Than Heaven`s own harping; and my eyes have tears
 Which brim and quiver, but they will not fall,
 For they are far too happy in my eyes.
 Tears,--what of tears? which are but new delights,
 New visions of new joys which none have seen,
 And which are mine. Such only Solomon
 Saw when he sat upon his ivory throne,
 And lo! the pageantry of Sheba came,
 Bearing its queen upon a sandal bed,
 And laid her at his feet. These even I,
 Who live and speak with you, have seen to--night.

 And mark, how simply wonders come about
 And take our hearts by storm, as in the night
 Fate creeps upon a city. I had fled
 Four months ago, when July nights were young,
 Out to the wilderness to be alone.
 Four months, four summer months among the hills,
 So far from my old life I had forgot
 All to my name. None knew me but my dog,
 And he was secret. Thus, in pedlar`s guise,
 With pack and staff, and bartering such small wares
 Of pills and ointments as the vulgar love,
 And gathering simples, I had worked my way
 Through every valley of the Candriote hills.
 Four summer months of silence, and the balm
 Of the green pastures where the cattle go
 In the long droughts; among the giant rocks
 Which are the walls of heaven, the ibex` home;
 Among the dells where the green lizards lurk,
 Waiting for sunrise. Oh, I knew them all,
 The speckled birds which live among the stones.
 I made new friendship with each grass and weed,
 Each moss and lichen. Every flower became
 Like a familiar face, and as I passed
 The harebell nodded to me from her stem,
 The gentian opened wide her sapphire eyes,
 And the Alp--roses blushed. But, most of all,
 The butterflies were mine. I marked each one,
 As he came sailing down upon the wind,
 A furlong off. The Argus looked at me
 Out of his hundred eyes and did not move.
 I could have counted you the purple spots
 On great Apollo`s wings. The shepherds came,
 And brought their sick, that I might heal their woes
 With my poor knowledge, and I learned in turn
 Much weather--wisdom, and some wisdom too
 Fresh from their human hearts `twas wealth to know.

 And thus I lived and dreamed and drank the wind
 Which snows had cooled; and often I have stood
 On some tall pinnacle above the plain,
 And watched the clouds come flying on the breeze
 To tear their fleeces on the jagged rocks,
 Until they caught and folded me about
 In their damp garments; and, when these were gone,
 And the sun broke through the rain, my very soul
 Laughed with the sun, washed white as a christened child,
 And all was clean forgotten but its joy.
 Such life was mine the short sweet summer through;
 But when the August days were fled away
 And nights grew chill, I came to Bannastal
 On the Uranian sea, and there my fate
 Was waiting for me, though I knew it not.

 My fate, and what a fate! Oh, Lytton, now
 I see my life transfigured like a seer`s.
 My eyes are open. I read plain the meaning
 Of all that I beheld and heard and knew
 Through the past summer, as in words of fire:
 The sadness of my soul, my pilgrimage
 Among the hills, each flower upon my way,
 The sun, the stars, the passionate face of heaven,
 The virtue of the earth, which expectation
 Peopled for me with signs and prophecies,
 All, all foretold the coming of a god.
 Nay more, each hope, each fancy, each desire,
 Each separate thought which I have thought, each sorrow
 Laid on my heart, each unseen accident
 Met in my road, each word, each look, each choice,
 Each idle dream that I have dreamt in folly,
 From my first hour till now, I do acknowledge
 As the great forecast of a glorious fate,
 Of hope made ecstasy and life made love.

 And thus it is I learned the very truth
 That God is on this earth. For twenty days
 Are come and gone, and twenty nights have been
 More sunny than those days, since these things were;
 And I still ride upon the back of joy,
 Which bears me bravely. Still the flowers blow.
 St. Martin`s summer has brought back the birds
 To sing in these old gardens as in June.
 --Listen. I hear one like the nightingale,
 But sweeter and less sad, and thus she sings:

 Oh fly not, Pleasure, pleasant--hearted Pleasure.
 Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay.
 For my heart no measure
 Knows nor other treasure
 To buy a garland for my love to--day.

 And thou too, Sorrow, tender--hearted Sorrow.
 Thou grey--eyed mourner, fly not yet away.
 For I fain would borrow
 Thy sad weeds to--morrow
 To make a mourning for love`s yesterday.

 The voice of Pity, Time`s divine dear Pity,
 Moved me to tears. I dared not say them nay,
 But went forth from the city
 Making thus my ditty
 Of fair love lost for ever and a day.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.