“Take me to her that I may tell her how sorry I am,” I begged humbly.
“It is of no use,” he answered. “Your night was not come then, or you would not have left us. It is not come now, and I cannot show you the way. The dead were rejoicing under their daisies—they all lie among the roots of the flowers of heaven—at the thought of your delight when the winter should be past, and the morning with its birds come: ere you left them, they shivered in their beds. When the spring of the universe arrives,—but that cannot be for ages yet! how many, I do not know—and do not care to know.”
“Tell me one thing, I beg of you, Mr. Raven: is my father with you? Have you seen him since he left the world?”
“Yes; he is with us, fast asleep. That was he you saw with his arm on the coverlet, his hand half closed.”
“Why did you not tell me? That I should have been so near him, and not know!”
“And turn your back on him!” corrected the raven.
“I would have lain down at once had I known!”
“I doubt it. Had you been ready to lie down, you would have known him!—Old Sir Up’ard,” he went on, “and your twice great-grandfather, both are up and away long ago. Your great-grandfather has been with us for many a year; I think he will soon begin to stir. You saw him last night, though of course you did not know him.”
“Why OF COURSE?”
“Because he is so much nearer waking than you. No one who will not sleep can ever wake.”