"Yet that is all. There is nothing else possible. Dust unto dust. As with the Body, so with the mind, the spirit of life, that which I am, the Will. In the Grave there is no fretfulness any more: neither any sorrow, or joy, or any thought, or dream, or fear, or hope whatsoever. Hath not God Himself said it, through the mouth of His prophet?"
"I do not understand," murmured the Soul, troubled.
"Because the Grave is not your portion."
"But I, too, must know Death!"
"Yes, truly—a change what was it?—a change from a dream of Beauty, to Beauty!"
"God knows I would that we could go together—you, and he yonder, and I; or, if that cannot be, he being wholly mortal, then at the least you and I."
"But we cannot. At least, so it seems to us. But I—I too am alive, I too have dreams and visions, I too have joys and hopes, I too have despairs. And for me—nothing. I am, at the end, as a blown flame."
"It may not be so. Something has whispered to me at times that you and I are to be made one."
"Tell me: can the immortal wed the mortal?"
"No."