I
THY soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone --
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy:
II
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.
III
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.
IV
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.
V
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! --