Spirits of the Dead
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 thy 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 oershadow 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 & a fever
Which would cling to thee forever
But twill leave thee, as each star
With the dew-drop flies afar —
Now are thoughts thou can’st not banish —
Now are visions ne’er to vanish —
No more, like dew-drop from the grass,
From thy spirit shall they pass —
The breeze — the breath of God — is still —
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy — shadowy, yet unbroken
Is a symbol & a token —
How it hangs upon the trees!
A mystery of mysteries!
Edgar Allan Poe
Originally Published in 1827
