Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray 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 then overshadow thee: be still.
For the night⁠—tho’ 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 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-drops 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!