But in spite of these occasional interruptions - in spite, also, of
the continuous autumn twittering that filled the trees - the chief
impression somehow was one as of utter silence, insomuch that the
little greenish bell that peeped out of a window in the tower
disquieted me with a sense of some possible and more inharmonious
disturbance. The grass was wet, as if with a hoar frost that had
just been melted. I do not know that ever I saw a morning more
autumnal. As I went to and fro among the graves, I saw some flowers
set reverently before a recently erected tomb, and drawing near, was
almost startled to find they lay on the grave a man seventy-two years
old when he died. We are accustomed to strew flowers only over the
young, where love has been cut short untimely, and great
possibilities have been restrained by death. We strew them there in
token, that these possibilities, in some deeper sense, shall yet be
realised, and the touch of our dead loves remain with us and guide us
to the end. And yet there was more significance, perhaps, and
perhaps a greater consolation, in this little nosegay on the grave of
one who had died old.
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