The Country of the Blind

The last note jerked me out of my grave like a hooked minnow.

I saw my monument (rather a mean little affair, and I wished I knew who’d done it), and the old elm tree and the sea view vanished like a puff of steam, and then all about me—­a multitude no man could number, nations, tongues, kingdoms, peoples—­children of all the ages, in an amphitheatral space as vast as the sky.  And over against us, seated on a throne of dazzling white cloud, the Lord God and all the host of his angels.  I recognised Azrael by his darkness and Michael by his sword, and the great angel who had blown the trumpet stood with the trumpet still half raised.