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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.