large/8934/worshipper_image_1410_librivox_64kb_mp3/worshipperimage_03_legallienne_64kb_84
large/8934/worshipper_image_1410_librivox_64kb_mp3/worshipperimage_03_legallienne_64kb
English
8934
All the winter they lie hidden in the crevices of the stone, in the carving of little names, and with the first spring day they stand delicately and dry their yellow wings on the little graves. There are the honeycombs of friendly bees, and the shelters of many a timid earth born speck of life no bigger than a dewdrop, mysteriously small. ALL THE WINTER THEY LIE HIDDEN IN THE CREVICES OF THE STONE IN THE CARVING OF LITTLE NAMES AND WITH THE FIRST SPRING DAY THEY STAND DELICATELY AND DRY THEIR YELLOW WINGS ON THE LITTLE GRAVES THERE ARE THE HONEYCOMBS OF FRIENDLY BEES AND THE SHELTERS OF MANY A TIMID EARTH BORN SPECK OF LIFE NO BIGGER THAN A DEWDROP MYSTERIOUSLY SMALL
g they can feel the earth rocking them as in a cradle, and at night hear the hushed singing of the stars. Yes, Earth loves nothing so much as her little graves. There the tiny bodies, like unexhausted censers, pour out all the stored sweetness they had no time to use above the ground, turning the earth they lie in to precious spices. There the roots of the old yew trees feel about tenderly for the little unguided hands, and sometimes at nightfall the rain bends over them weeping like an inconsolable mother. It is on the little graves that the sun first rises at morn, and it is there at evening that the moon lays softly her first silver flowers. There the wren will sometimes bring her sky-blue eggs for a gift, and the summer wind come sowing seeds of magic to take the fancy of the little one beneath. Sometimes it shakes the hyacinths like a rattle of silver, and spreads the turf above with a litter of coloured toys. Here the butterflies are born with the first warm breath of the spring. WHERE ALL DAY LONG THEY CAN FEEL THE EARTH ROCKING THEM AS IN A CRADLE AND AT NIGHT HEAR THE HUSHED SINGING OF THE STARS YES EARTH LOVES NOTHING SO MUCH AS HER LITTLE GRAVES THERE THE TINY BODIES LIKE UNEXHAUSTED CENSERS POUR OUT ALL THE STORED SWEETNESS THEY HAD NO TIME TO USE ABOVE THE GROUND TURNING THE EARTH THEY LIE INTO PRECIOUS SPICES THERE THE ROOTS OF THE OLD YEW TREES FEEL ABOUT TENDERLY FOR THE LITTLE UNGUIDED HANDS AND SOMETIMES AT NIGHTFALL THE RAIN BENDS OVER THEM WEEPING LIKE AN INCONSOLABLE MOTHER IT IS ON THE LITTLE GRAVES THAT THE SUN FIRST RISES AT MORN AND IT IS THERE AT EVENING THAT THE MOON LAYS SOFTLY HER FIRST SILVER FLOWERS THERE THE WIND WILL SOMETIMES BRING HER SKY BLUE EGGS FOR A GIFT AND THE SUMMER WIND COMES SOWING SEEDS OF MAGIC TO TAKE THE FANCY OF THE LITTLE ONE BENEATH SOMETIMES IT SHAKES THE HYACINTHS LIKE A RATTLE OF SILVER AND SPREADS THE TURF ABOVE WITH A LITTER OF COLOURED TOYS HERE THE BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN WITH THE FIRST WARM BREATH OF THE SPRING
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