Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone⁠— 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 not look 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 forever. 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. 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!