There are seasons when the fragrant soul within
Leaps, as a yearning child within the womb,
And shakes the fleshly fences of its tomb, —
Eager to mount, and rustle, and begin
A life delivered from the fangs of sin
And these slow fleshly fires that do consume: —
And then the sweet soul flings a strange perfume
From limbs that move and struggle, and we win
At times a wild intoxicating sense
Of the large life of deathland, — that shall be
One meadow of sweet ether with no fence,
One imperturbable unbounded sea
Wherein the soul shall revel, winged and free,
Exulting in a magnitude intense.