Thy soul shall find itself crying alone      Mid dark thoughts of gray tomb-stone   Not one, of all the crowd   Into the hour of horror be silent in that   Solitude which is not loneliness   For spirits of the dead      Spirits stood in life before you are   In the death around you - their will   their will is overshadowing you   Therefore you must be forever still      The night thought clear shall frown   like wounded devil stars   shall look right down at the graves   From their high thrones replaced in the heaven   With light like hope to mortals given      As burning fever   Which would adhere   To you forever      Every thought will never banish now vision vanish   From thy spirits shall they will pass no more   Like dew from the grass the breathe the breath   Of God is still mist upon the hill      Look how it moves   Between the trees   Riddle's mysteries.