Spirits of the Dead

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
    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--tho' 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 thy weariness shall seem
  As a burning and a fever
  Which would cling to thee forever.
  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 mystery of mysteries!

Edgar Allan Poe, 1837.