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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 again

In death around thee, and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.



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 vision 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!



---Poe