He quitted the sunny bare space, the kirkyard and the woman sitting with her basket of marigolds and pansies.
But two nights later he came to this place alone.
The moon was full.

It hung like a wonder lantern above the hill and the kirk; it made the kirkyard cloth of silver.

The yews stood unreal, or with a delicate, other reality.

It was neither warm nor cold.

The moving air neither struck nor caressed, but there breathed a sense of coming and going, unhurried and unperplexed, from far away to far away.