Spirits Of The Dead
by Edgar Allan Poe

   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 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!