There is no human passion like this passion for the dead; none so awful, none so holy, none so changeless.

For they have become eternal, and our desire for them is sealed with the stamp of their eternity, and strengthens in the shadow of its wings till the shadows flee away and we pass to greet them in the dawn of the immortal morning.
Yes, within the secret breast of Morris the flame of memory still burned, and still seethed those bitter waters of desire for the dead.
There was nothing carnal about this desire, since the passions of the flesh perish with the flesh.

Nor was there anything of what a man may feel when he sees the woman whom he loves and who loves him, forced to another fate, for to those he robs death has this advantage over the case of other successful rivals: his embrace purifies, and of it we are not jealous.

The longing was spiritual, and for this reason it did not weaken, but, indeed, became a part of him, to grow with the spirit from which it took its birth.

Still, had it not been for a chance occurrence, there, in the spirit, it might have remained buried, in due course to pass away with it and seek its expression in unknown conditions and regions unexplored.
In a certain fashion Morris was happy enough.