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!

Edgar Allan Poe -1827-