Three Green Berets killed, two wounded after troop came under fire in Niger

 

                                                                         

Thy soul shall find itself alone

’Mid dark thoughts of the gray 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, 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

 

 Edgar Allan Poe