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Spirits of the Dead By Edgar Allan Poe  |
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 Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone — 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 would cling to thee for ever. 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! — | |||||||||||||
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