dreary greyness comes like a fog through the curtains, Antony and
Beatrice fell into each other's arms in anguish, for Wonder was dead.




CHAPTER XIV


A SONG OF THE LITTLE DEAD

They carried little Wonder to a green churchyard, a place of kind old
trees and tender country bells. There were few birds to welcome her in
the grim November morning, but the grasses stole close and whispered
that very soon the thrush and the nightingale would be coming, that the
violets were already on their way, and that when May was there she
should lie all day in a bed of perfume.

For very dear to Nature's heart are the Little Dead. The great dead lie
imprisoned in escutcheoned vaults, but for the little dead Nature
spreads out soft small graves, all snowdrops and dewdrops, where
day-long they can feel the earth rocking them as in a cradle, and at
night hear the hushed singing of the stars.

Yes, Earth loves nothing so much as her little graves. There the tiny
bodies, like unexhausted censers, pour out all the stored sweetness they
had no time to use above the ground, turning the earth they lie in to
precious spices. There the roots of the old yew trees feel about
tenderly for the little unguided hands, and sometimes at nightfall the
rain bends over them weeping like an inconsolable mother.