Spirits Of The Dead

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 overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
?And the stars shall not look down
?A burning and a fever?
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,?
Now are visions never 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!

The night, though clear, shall frown,
?And the stars shall not look down
?A burning and a fever?
Which would cling to thee for ever.