Genur.art

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! --