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Spirits Of The Dead, By Edgar Allan Poe
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone-
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness-for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee-and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night, tho' clear, shall frown-
And the stars shall look not down
From their high thrones in the heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given-
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which could cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more-like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze-the breath of God-is still-
And the mist upon the hill,
Shadowy-shadowy-yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token-
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
