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.
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