Alone - Pathology

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the gray 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 three, are again

In death around three- and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

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 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-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!-