Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear—
These are night’s mysteries—who shall make them clear?
And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which naught can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?