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Thy soul shall find itself alone |
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'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone- |
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Not one, of all the crowd, to pry |
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Into thine hour of secrecy: |
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Be silent in that solitude, |
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Which is not loneliness- for then |
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The spirits of the dead who stood |
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In life before three, are again |
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In death around three- and their will |
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Shall overshadow thee: be still. |
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The night- tho clear-shall frown- |
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And the stars shall look not down, |
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From their high thrones in the heaven, |
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With light like hope to mortals given- |
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But their red-orbs, without beam, |
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To thy weariness shall seem |
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As a burning and a fever |
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Which would cling to thee for ever. |
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Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish- |
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Now are visions ne'er to vanish- |
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From thy spirit shall they pass |
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No more- like dew-drops from the grass. |
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The breeze- the breath of God- is still |
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And the mist upon the hill |
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Shadowy- shadowy- yet unbroken, |
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Is a symbol and a token- |
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How it hangs upon the trees, |
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A mystery of mysteries!- |
