Spirits Of The Dead


Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone--

Alone of all on earth--unknown

The cause--but none are near 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 o'ershadow thee--be still.

For the night, tho' clear, shall frown:

And the stars shall look not down

From their thrones, in the dark heav'n;

With light like Hope to mortals giv'n,

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy withering heart shall seem

As a burning, and a fever

Which would cling to thee forever.

But 'twill leave thee, as each star

In the morning light afar

Will fly thee, and vanish:

--But its thought thou can'st not banish.

The breath of God will be still;

And the wisp upon the hill

By that summer breeze unbrok'n

Shall charm thee--as a token,

And a symbol which shall be

Secrecy in thee.


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