“Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that anything ever really dies.”
The Hermit looked down at him and smiled.
“Perhaps not,” he said.
When the music began again, a strange thing happened. The Hermit sang the Easter song with the others. It was the first time he had sung for many years.
All silently, and soft as sleep,
The snow fell, flake on flake.
Slumber, spent Earth, and dream of flowers,
Till springtime bids you wake.
Again the deadened bough shall bend
With blooms of sweetest breath.