Spirits Of The Dead

A Poem by Edgar Allen Poem:

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!