Spirits of the Dead

 Thy soul shall find itself alone
 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey 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, though clear, shall frown,
 And the stars shall not look 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!

E.A.POE