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:
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.
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! —
