“I was going to tell him I wanted it turned into a wilderness of rose-trees, and that the plough must never come within three yards of it.”
“Listen!” said the raven, seeming to hold his breath.
I listened, and heard—was it the sighing of a far-off musical wind—or the ghost of a music that had once been glad? Or did I indeed hear anything?
“They go there still,” said the raven.
“Who goes there? and where do they go?” I asked.
“Some of the people who used to pray there, go to the ruins still,” he replied. “But they will not go much longer, I think.”
“What makes them go now?”
“They need help from each other to get their thinking done, and their feelings hatched, so they talk and sing together; and then, they say, the big thought floats out of their hearts like a great ship out of the river at high water.”
“Do they pray as well as sing?”
“No; they have found that each can best pray in his own silent heart.—Some people are always at their prayers.—Look! look! There goes one!”