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 then overshadow thee: be still.
For 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:
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! –
