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,

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 feaver
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-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 mery of mysteries!