Poetry · Spirits of the Dead

Spirits of the Dead

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.

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 then overshadow thee: be still.

For the night⁠—tho’ 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 forever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish⁠—

Now are visions ne’er to vanish⁠—

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more⁠—like dew-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!