Spirits Of The Dead

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! 

Photo: Elderly Couple With A Young Female Spirit 
Photo by: National Media Museum 
Taken: Circa 1920 
Poem by: Edgar Allan Poe 
Poem provided by: CZ