Poetic Oversoul

THIS MORN' I CLIMBED THE MISTY HILL, AND ROAMED THE PASTURES THROUGH; HOW DANCED THY FORM BEFORE MY PATH, AMID THE DEEP-EYED DEW! WHEN THE REDBIRD SPREAD HIS SABLE WING, AND SHOWED HIS SIDE OF FLAME; WHEN THE ROSEBUD RIPENED TO THE ROSE, IN BOTH I READ THY NAME--SPECIAL! THOU ART TO ME A BRIGHT REVELATION, OF THE BEST NATURE OF WOMAN PASSED: WHAT IS TRUE AT LAST WILL TELL; FEW AT FIRST WILL PLACE THEE WELL; SOME TOO LOW WOULD HAVE THEE SHINE, SOME TOO HIGH--NO FAULT OF THINE: HOLD THINE OWN, AND MAKE THY WILL! YEAR WILL GRAZE THE HEEL OF YEAR, BUT SELDOM COMES THE POET HERE, AND THE CRITIC'S RARER STILL.