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 overshadow thee: be still
 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
 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!