Thy soul shall find itself alone
      'Mid dark thoughts of the grey 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 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!

~ Edgar Allan Poe

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