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 Death was in that poison’d wave—

And, in it's gulf a fitting grave

For him who thence could solace bring

To his lone imagining—

Whose solitary soul could make

An Eden of that dim lake.

1 Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone — Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy:

2 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 then overshadow thee: be still.