By Rebecca Dow

Bonjour, my literary nerdlets! Following the “spooky” theme foretold in The Beacon’s last issue, I have for you a very special poem by Edgar Allan Poe titled “Spirits of the Dead” (originally titled “Visits of the Dead”).

Published in 1827, and again in 1829, the poem follows the dialogue of a dead speaker and a mournful individual at its grave. Thie piece in particular has an interesting rhyme scheme for each stanza: AABB, ABABCC, AABBCCDD, AABB and AABBCC, respectively. Additionally, Poe creates a nice effect with his use of alliteration. Examples of this can be seen in the fifth line, “Be silent in that solitude”; the 20th line, “Now are visions, ne’er to vanish,”; in line 22, “No more, like dew-drop from the grass,”; and especially in the last two lines of the piece, “How it hangs upon the trees/A mystery of mysteries!”

Beginning with a somber tone in the first stanza, we can see that the mood shifts to an almost angry feel by the third stanza, then changing to one of acceptance or unknowing by the end.

I do hope you all have enjoyed the pieces presented here today. Remember, send in your works to my email, rebeccadow@smccme.edu, if you’re interesting in having your poetry published!

Spirits Of The Dead
Edgar Allan Poe

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 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!