Every now and then a soft little wind awoke, like a throb of the spirit of life, and shook together the scattered drops upon the trees, and then down came diamond showers on the grass and daisies of the mounds, and fed the green moss in the letters of the epitaphs.

Over all the sun was shining, as if everywhere and forever spring was the order of things.

And is it not so?
Is not the idea of the creation an eternal spring ever trembling on the verge of summer?
It seemed so to the curate, who was not given to sad, still less to sentimental moralizing over the graves.

From such moods his heart recoiled.

To him they were weak and mawkish, and in him they would have been treacherous.