* * *

Edgar Allan Poe

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