SPIRITS OF THE DEAD by Edgar Allan Poe

 

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.

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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