Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid darks thoughts of the gray 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--tho' clear--shall frown--
And the stars shall not look down 
Form their high thrones in the 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 de-drops 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!