Dubliners

by James Joyce

I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Note

There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something.

One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.