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 Satan, 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!

(by E.A. Poe)