Spirits Of The Dead by Edgar Allan Poe

    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 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 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!
Robert Burns

James Child
Traditional Ballad

Kate Finley

Thomas Hardy
Withered Arm

Robert Stephen Hawker
The Botathen Ghost

Washington Irving
The Legend of Sleepy Hallow