[by Edgar Allan Poe (1827)]

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 the 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, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!