“Far away beyond the pine—woods,” he answered, in a low, dreamy voice, “there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew—tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.”

Still one of my all time favourites.