Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allan PoeThy soul shall find itself alone‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;Not one, of all the crowd, to pryInto thine hour of secrecy.Be silent in that solitude,Which is not loneliness — for thenThe spirits of the dead, who stoodIn life before thee, are againIn death around thee, and their willShall overshadow thee; be still.The night, though clear, shall frown,And the stars shall not look downFrom their high thrones in the HeavenWith light like hope to mortals given,But their red orbs, without beam,To thy weariness shall seemAs a burning and a feverWhich 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 passNo more, like dew-drop from the grass.The breeze, the breath of God, is still,And the mist upon the hillShadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,Is a symbol and a token.How it hangs upon the trees,A mystery of mysteries!-----Prosodia is a daily podcast dedicated to historical notes and poems, hosted by Karim El Azhari. Welcome!All show notes are heavily recycled from old The Writer’s Almanac archives. May that podcast rest in peace (it was Karim’s favorite).All poems are public domain or submitted by the author for use on the show.Intro and outro music by Chillhop Records. They are amazing!