Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself.
“David,” I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, “it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here.”
“Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one.”
David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet.
“Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?”
“Yes, dear, I feel near God,” he took off his hat as he spoke, “I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern,” he continued, “it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Thou remainest,” raising his head and looking up at the sky, “all others may leave us—all, home, earthly love—all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God.” I was silent.