the moon shone down upon the grave , but the dead was not there ; every child could go safely , even at night , and pluck a rose from the tree by the churchyard wall . the dead know more than we do who are living . they know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange thing were to happen , as the appearance of a dead person among us . they are better off than we are ; the dead return no more . the earth has been heaped on the coffin , and it is earth only that lies within it . the leaves of the hymn - book are dust ; and the rose , with all its recollections , has crumbled to dust also . but over the grave fresh roses bloom , the nightingale sings , and the organ sounds and there still lives a remembrance of old grandmother , with the loving , gentle eyes that always looked young . eyes can never die . ours will once again behold dear grandmother , young and beautiful as when , for the first time , she kissed the fresh , red rose , that is now dust in the grave .
they do n't want to scare us .
why don't the dead return ?
why don't the dead return ?