Life of An Oversoul

The natural history of some has never been written, We’re but a stream whose source is hidden The most exact calculator has no prescience, Our being is descending into us from we know not whence. I’m many a times moody and wildly wise, pursuing daring games with joyful eyes, which chose, like meteors, their way And rived the dark with private ray: I am owner of my private atmosphere, of the ample tears shed in a year, of pupil’s hand, and oracle’s brain, of Lord Christ heart, and prophet’s strain. I am one found overleapting the horizon’s edge, searching with host’s privilege; through man, woman, sea, and star, Glancing the dance of nature forward far; Through demensions, races, terms, and times, Beholding melodical order, and juxtaposing rhymes. I’m one treading fountain-heads and pathless groves, Spaces which pale passion loves, Starlight walks, when all the fowls Are safely sheltered, save bats and owls, A midnight bell, a passing groan, Such are the sounds I feed upon.