Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - Grandmother.
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it), and the rose lay in the old book – and then
they buried grandmother.
On the grave, close under the church-wall,
they planted a rose-tree, and it became full of
roses, and the nightingale sang over it, and the
organ in the church played the finest psalms
that were in the book under the dead one’s
head. And the moon shone straight down on
the grave – but the dead was not there: every
child could go quietly in the night-time and
pluck a rose there by the churchyard-wall. The
dead know more than all we living know –
the dead know the awe we should feel at
something so strange as their coming to us.
The dead are better than us all, and therefore
they do not come.
There is earth over the coffin, there is earth
within it; the psalm-book with its leaves is dust,
the rose with all its recollections has gone to
dust. But above it bloom new roses, above it
sings the nightingale, and the organ plays: – we
think of the old grandmother with the mild,
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