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.
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