THY soul shall find itself alone

’Mid dark thoughts of the gray 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

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Shall overshadow thee: be still.

 

For the night, though 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

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Which would cling to thee for ever:

 

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Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,

Now are visions ne’er to vanish;

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From thy spirit shall they pass

[[v]]

No more, like dew-drop from the grass. [page 129:]

 

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!