Spirits of the Dead

0
269

Spirits of the Dead

By Edgar Allen Poe
 
I 
 
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. 
 
 
       II 
 
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. 
 
 
       III 
 
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. 
 
 
       IV 
 
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. 
 
 
       V 
 
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!