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:
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.

For 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-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! --

˙̸u̸n̸ɟ̸ ̸ɹ̸o̸ɟ̸ ̸ʎ̸ן̸u̸o̸ ̸'̸ן̸ɐ̸ʇ̸ı̸ƃ̸ı̸p̸ ̸o̸p̸ ̸I̸ ̸ɥ̸ƃ̸n̸o̸ɥ̸ʇ̸ ̸u̸ǝ̸ʌ̸ǝ̸ ̸'̸ן̸ɐ̸u̸o̸ı̸ʇ̸ı̸p̸ɐ̸ɹ̸ʇ̸ ̸ʎ̸ן̸ʇ̸s̸o̸ɯ̸ ̸s̸,̸ʇ̸I̸ ̸˙̸u̸ǝ̸ǝ̸s̸u̸n̸ ̸ǝ̸ɥ̸ʇ̸ ̸p̸u̸ɐ̸ ̸ʎ̸s̸ɐ̸ʇ̸u̸ɐ̸ɟ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɥ̸ʇ̸ ̸'̸ʇ̸u̸ǝ̸ɯ̸ǝ̸ʌ̸n̸o̸ɯ̸ ̸o̸ɔ̸o̸ɔ̸o̸ᴚ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɥ̸ʇ̸ ̸ʎ̸B̸ ̸p̸ǝ̸ɹ̸ı̸d̸s̸u̸ı̸ ̸s̸ı̸ ̸(̸s̸s̸ǝ̸ɹ̸ƃ̸o̸ɹ̸d̸ ̸u̸ı̸ ̸ן̸ן̸ı̸ʇ̸s̸ ̸s̸ı̸ ̸ɥ̸ɔ̸ı̸ɥ̸ʍ̸)̸ ̸ʇ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ ̸ן̸ɐ̸u̸o̸s̸ɹ̸ǝ̸d̸ ̸ʎ̸W̸
̸ ̸˙̸p̸n̸ɐ̸B̸ɯ̸ı̸ᴚ̸ ̸ɹ̸n̸ɥ̸ʇ̸ɹ̸∀̸ ̸p̸u̸ɐ̸ ̸ǝ̸o̸Ԁ̸ ̸u̸ɐ̸ן̸ן̸∀̸ ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ƃ̸p̸Ǝ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ ̸s̸ʇ̸ǝ̸o̸d̸ ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ı̸ɹ̸o̸ʌ̸ɐ̸ɟ̸ ̸ʎ̸W̸
̸
̸ ̸ ̸˙̸ƃ̸ƃ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸S̸ ̸ǝ̸ı̸u̸u̸∀̸ ̸p̸u̸ɐ̸ ̸o̸ʎ̸ɐ̸ʇ̸s̸ǝ̸S̸ ̸ɐ̸z̸ʇ̸u̸ɐ̸ɹ̸∀̸ ̸'̸ʎ̸ǝ̸ʞ̸ɔ̸ɐ̸W̸ ̸u̸ǝ̸ɥ̸d̸ǝ̸ʇ̸S̸ ̸'̸ʇ̸ʇ̸ǝ̸ʞ̸ɔ̸ǝ̸q̸ ̸˙̸ſ̸ ̸ʎ̸ǝ̸s̸ן̸ǝ̸ʞ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ ̸s̸ʇ̸s̸ı̸ʇ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ ̸„̸u̸ı̸ɐ̸ɹ̸o̸d̸ɯ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ɯ̸o̸ɔ̸„̸ ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ı̸ɹ̸o̸ʌ̸ɐ̸ɟ̸ ̸ʎ̸W̸
̸˙̸p̸ɹ̸ɐ̸u̸o̸ƃ̸ɐ̸ɹ̸Ⅎ̸ ̸ ̸s̸ı̸ ̸ɹ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸s̸ɐ̸ɯ̸ ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ı̸ɹ̸o̸ʌ̸ɐ̸ɟ̸ ̸ʎ̸ɯ̸ ̸ ̸'̸s̸n̸ɯ̸ɐ̸Ͻ̸ ̸ʇ̸ɹ̸ǝ̸B̸ן̸∀̸ ̸p̸u̸ɐ̸ ̸ɐ̸ʞ̸ɟ̸ɐ̸ʞ̸ ̸z̸u̸ɐ̸ɹ̸Ⅎ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ ̸s̸ɹ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ı̸ɹ̸ʍ̸ ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ı̸ɹ̸o̸ʌ̸ɐ̸ɟ̸ ̸ʎ̸W̸
̸ ̸˙̸ɔ̸ı̸s̸n̸ɯ̸ ̸p̸u̸ɐ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɹ̸n̸ʇ̸ɐ̸ɹ̸ǝ̸ʇ̸ʇ̸ı̸ן̸ ̸'̸ʇ̸ɹ̸ɐ̸ ̸ɟ̸o̸ ̸p̸u̸o̸ɟ̸ ̸ɯ̸,̸I̸ ̸˙̸ɥ̸ɔ̸u̸ǝ̸ɹ̸ɟ̸ ̸ɯ̸,̸I̸ ̸؛̸ ̸ɟ̸ן̸ǝ̸s̸ʎ̸ɯ̸ ̸ǝ̸ɔ̸n̸p̸o̸ɹ̸ʇ̸u̸ı̸ ̸o̸ʇ̸ ̸'̸o̸S̸
̸