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    [by Edgar Allan Poe (1827)]

    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
    From their high thrones in the Heaven
    With light like hope to mortals given,
    But their red orbs, without beam,
    To the 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, yet unbroken,
    Is a symbol and a token.
    How it hangs upon the trees,
    A mystery of mysteries!

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