Suddenly I see next to me on the grave mound a crouching gray figure. Between a veil tossed back I see a countenance, pallid and lovely, with smooth dark hair and a madonna-like face. About the softly smiling mouth is an expression of gentle loftiness such as is seen in those martyrs who joyfully bleed to death from the mightiness of their love.
Her eyes look down upon me in smiling peace, clear and soulful, the measure of all goodness, the mirror of all beauty.
I know the dark gleam of those eyes, I know that gray, soft veil, I know that poor sick hand, white as a blossom, that leans upon a crutch.
It is she, my faery, whose tears have awakened me from the dead.
All my defiance vanishes.
I lie upon the earth before her and kiss the hem of her garment.
And she inclines her head and stretches her hand out to me.
With the help of that hand I arise.
Holding this poor, sick hand, I stride joyfully back into life.