Thy soul shall find itself alone, mid-dark thoughts of the grey tombstone, not one of all the crowd to pry into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude, which is not loneliness for them 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 But their red orbs without beam, to thy weariness shall seem as a burning and a fever which would cling to thee forever.

Now our thoughts thou shalt not vanish.

Now are visions there to vanish.

From thy spirit shall they pass.

No more.

Like you drop 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.