All summer <br />I wandered the fields <br />that were thickening <br />every morning, <br /> <br />every rainfall, <br />with weeds and blossoms, <br />with the long loops <br />of the shimmering, and the extravagant- <br /> <br />pale as flames they rose <br />and fell back, <br />replete and beautiful- <br />that was all there was- <br /> <br />and I too <br />once or twice, at least, <br />felt myself rising, <br />my boots <br /> <br />touching suddenly the tops of the weeds, <br />the blue and silky air- <br />listen, <br />passion did it, <br /> <br />called me forth, <br />addled me, <br />stripped me clean <br />then covered me with the cloth of happiness- <br /> <br />I think there is no other prize, <br />only rapture the gleaming, <br />rapture the illogical the weightless- <br /> <br />whether it be for the perfect shapeliness <br />of something you love- <br />like an old German song- <br />or of someone- <br /> <br />or the dark floss of the earth itself, <br />heavy and electric. <br />At the edge of sweet sanity open <br />such wild, blind wings.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rapture/
