They are the sentinels of the silent cities, standing tall and often spreading out their branches to shade the last resting places of the permanent residents. Yew trees can often be older than the churches they nestle beside and may predate Christianity as many churches were built on pagan sites of worship. In fact there are reputed to be at least 500 yew trees of this vintage in the UK! And incredibly, there are 10 yew trees in Britain that are believed to predate the 10th century.
These venerable trees have many associations and traditions. So, I will concentrate on a few. They are usually associated with churchyards and burial grounds. The most common tradition is that they are nourished by the decaying bodies beneath them and, as they can grow up to 20 metres high, this could seem plausible. Another tradition states that yews were planted on plague victims graves to protect and purify them – if this were true then some churchyards would resemble a forest!
Another common tradition is that they were planted to prevent ‘commoners’ from grazing their cattle on church ground. This was because yews are very poisonous to livestock. The needles are deadly, and Shakespeare used this in Macbeth when the three witches conjure up a deadly brew that contains, amongst other unpleasant ingredients:
‘Gall of goat, and slips of yew Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse,’
However, the Celts saw the yew as a symbol of immortality, death and resurrection which makes the yew’s presence in burial places more obvious. This was because its drooping branches are able to root and form new trunks where they touch the ground. The one at St James in Cooling was living inside its dead ancestor which demonstrates its ability to renew itself.
In fact, they are one of the most long lived trees in Western Europe but are not considered ancient until at least 900 years old. The oldest tree in Scotland, and possibly Europe, is the magnificent Fortingall yew in Glen Lyon. It has been suggested that it is over 2000 years old and maybe even 9000 years old. It has numerous legends attached to it and in 1769 was reputed to have a girth of over 56ft. In 1854, funeral processions were reputed to be able to pass through the arch formed by its split trunk. The yew in St Cynog’s churchyard in Wales is a mere stripling at a reputed 5000 years old. One of the world’s oldest surviving wooden artifacts is a yew spear head which is estimated to be around 450,000 years old. They are evergreens with red berries which although are edible, the seed in the berry is extremely dangerous.
One of my favourite churchyards is that of St Marys in Painswick, Gloucestershire. It has 99 clipped yew trees but according to Roy’s blog post, attempts to grow a 100th tree have always failed. They are a dramatic sight to see!
I must admit that I would feel disappointed if I visited a churchyard and didn’t see a tall, majestic yew or two keeping watch over the dead as potent symbols of resurrection and immortality and the life to come.
Loren Rhoads, author of the first ‘Death’s Garden’ and ‘199 Cemeteries To See Before You Die’, has now created ‘Death’s Garden Revisited’. This is a collection of essays from fellow taphophiles in which they express their relationships and feelings about cemeteries.
And (drum roll) I have an essay in it! It goes live on March 17 2022 on Kickstarter!
Loren Rhoads talks about her inspiration for the book.
A worthy addition to any taphophiles bookshelf or Kindle!
‘I give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister — Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, “Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,” I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine — who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle — I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers—pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence.
Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain, that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond, was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing, was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.
This is an excerpt from the first chapter of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. It’s full of atmosphere and mystery as the hero, Pip, conscious that he is alone in the world, contemplates the graves of his family in a Kent churchyard. Then Magwitch, the escaped convict, comes up from the marshes and finds him. Pip’s life will never be the same again.
The churchyard is that of St James, Cooling. As I’m currently living in Charles Dickens country in Kent, I thought I should take the opportunity to visit two nearby churches which are associated with him. After admiring the restored charnel house in the churchyard of St Margaret’s, Cliffe and the container ships on the horizon which weren’t quite so interesting, I set off. The large sign pointing me to Cooling did not indicate the distance involved but it soon proved to be ‘a country mile’ away. If you’ve not heard this expression before, it means that it’s a lot further away than you thought. There was no bus service there and so I walked (why I am not a sylph like being by now I have no idea) and walked and walked along what was an empty road for most of my journey. A straggle of houses soon came to an end, and I was surrounded by fields. These were sunflower fields that had been harvested.
A few stragglers were still visible and what a sight they must have been in high summer! But hope sprang eternal as to me finding the village and at least it was sunny. I kept looking hopefully but at last the remains of the 14th century Cooling Castle came into sight. It must have been a magnificent and impressive structure in its day and indicated that there must have been a lot more of Cooling then there is now. It dwarfed the more contemporary corporate events lodge next door to it.
On I plodded and then I turned a corner and there was the church! But as I stepped into the churchyard it became overcast and colder. The atmosphere seemed to change and I felt chilly.
I never did find any evidence of an actual village but there was a small terrace of houses on the other side of the churchyard. This is named, appropriately or unimaginatively, Dickens Walk. In Dickens time the church was situated on the marshes which have now been drained for farmland. But it’s still an isolated spot and must be even more so in the depths of winter. On the horizon were the Coryton oil refineries and the town of Basildon in Essex. Not very inspiring I thought. In Dickens time, the church would have been surrounded by the marshes and quite desolate and yet it inspired one of his greatest novels.
‘Pip’s Graves’ as they are known are in a prominent place near the church door – a group of small graves clustered together as if for company. These are the children, aged between 1 month to 18 months from two families who all died during the late 18th and 19th centuries. It was a poignant sight to see so many and there were 2 more child’s graves on the other side of the church. The table top tomb where Dickens liked to set out his picnic lunch is still there and I wondered if the churchyard had changed much since his day.
Also in the churchyard, there was a wide, spreading yew that was growing inside its dead ancestor – no wonder they are seen as symbols of resurrection and on one wall there was a mass dial. These were the only way of telling the time before the invention of mechanised timekeepers in the 14th century. Mass dials featured in a recent Symbol of the Month.
St James’s is a closed church in that it’s no longer used for services and is managed by the Churches Conservation Trust. On its website it calls itself a ‘church of great expectations’. Inside it was bright and airy and much of it dated back to the 14th century although there is a 13th century font. It retains the remnants of a rood screen and loft – obviously the iconoclasts weren’t as enthusiastic in their wrecking sprees here. The main nave aisle has four memorial slabs of which one had retained its brass inscription to Thomas Woodycare who died in 1611 and the other one was dedicated to Feyth Brook, the wife of John Brock, Lord Cobham and she died in 1508. The other two were blank or missing their brassware.
Sadly, I missed seeing another of St James’ claims to fame – the 19th century vestry which is covered from floor to ceiling in cockle shells. The shell is associated with pilgrims who were on the trail to St James’s shrine at Compostela and there is a brass shell on the church’s weathervane. I may have to make a return visit to see the shell clad vestry. However, it has been suggested that the scene at the beginning of Great Expectations may be a combination of churches in the area but St James does have the sad little graves.
The churchyard also has a reputation for being haunted. Female figures in Victorian dress have been seen drifting across it. I can only say that I did feel watched all the time that I was exploring but when I saw my observer, I knew someone had a sense of humour……
This is the headstone dedicated to Henry Smith who rests in the churchyard of St Nicholas in Blakeney, Norfolk, UK. I saw it on Twitter@PoorFrankRaw and was immediately captivated by the ‘rivulet of time’ and the ocean of eternity. Henry is recorded with an entry in the parish records but not much more.
What a wonderful example of an intriguing epitaph that makes you stop, read it and remember Henry.
Today, February 2, is Candlemass and it seemed appropriate to revisit an older post featuring one of the first, and perhaps one of the most symbolic, flowers to appear in the New Year….
Imagine yourself in a gloomy medieval church on the festival of Candlemass. You, and your fellow parishioners, have each brought your candles to be blessed by the priest and, after the procession which will fill the church with light, they will all be placed in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Candlemass marked the end of winter and the beginning of Spring and the blessing is to ward off evil spirits. It traditionally falls on February 2 and is shared with the Celtic festival of Imbolc. And in the churchyard outside you can see green shoots forcing their way up through the hard winter earth. The snowdrop’s milk-white flowers show that spring is on its way as they begin to emerge into the light.
The placing of the lit candles in front of the Virgin Mary’s statue gave the snowdrop one of its many other names – Mary’s Tapers. But there are many others such: Dingle Dangle, Candlemas Bells, Fair Maids of February, Snow Piercer, Death’s Flower and Corpse Flower.
The snowdrop’s appearance has also inspired many comments . According to the Scottish Wildlife Trusts website they have been described as resembling 3 drops of milk hanging from a stem and they are also associated with the ear drop which is an old fashioned ear ring. Anyone who has seen a group of snowdrops nodding in the wind will understand what they mean. The snowdrop’s colour is associated with purity and they have been described as a shy flower with their drooping flowers. However, the eco enchantments website reveals that the flower is designed in this way due:
‘to the necessity of their dusty pollen being kept dry and sweet in order to attract the few insects flying in winter.’
Snowdrops have been known since ancient times and, in 1597, appeared in Geralde’s ‘Great Herbal where they were called by the less than catchy name of ‘Timely Flowers Bulbous Violets’. Its Latin name is Galanthus nivalis. Galanthus means milk white flowers and the nivalis element translates as snowy according to the great botanist, Linnaeus in 1753. In the language of flowers they’re associated with ‘Hope’ and the coming of spring and life reawakening.
However, yet despite all these positive associations, the elegant snowdrop has a much darker side. Monks were reputed to have brought them to the UK but it was the ever enthusiastic Victorians who copiously planted them in graveyards, churchyards and cemeteries which then linked them with death. Hence the nickname name ‘Death’s Flower.’
They were described by Margaret Baker in the 1903 ‘Encyclopedia of Superstitions, Folklore and the Occult of the World’ as:
‘so much like a corpse in a shroud that in some counties the people will not have it in the house, lest they bring in death.‘
So that’s where the ‘Corpse Flower’ nickname came from.
Snowdrops are also seen as Death’s Tokens and there are several regional folk traditions of connecting death with them. For example in the 19th and early 20th centuries it was considered very unlucky to bring the flower into the house from outside as it was felt that a death would soon occur. The most unlucky snowdrop was that with a single bloom on its stem. Other folk traditions were described in a 1913 folklore handbook which claims that if a snowdrop was brought indoors it will make the cows milk watery and affect the colour of the butter. Even as late as 1969 in ‘The Folklore of Plants’ it was stated that having a snowdrop indoors could affect the number of eggs that a sitting chicken might hatch. A very powerful plant if these are all to be believed – you have been warned!
It’s amazing that this little flower has so many associations and legends connected with it but I always see it as a harbinger of spring, rebirth and an indication of warmer days to come.
But the snowdrop also has a surprise. This came courtesy of the Urban Countryman page on Facebook – not all social media is time wasting! If you very gently turn over a snowdrop bloom you will find that the underside is even prettier and they also vary depending on the snowdrop variety.
Here is a small selection from my local churchyard and one from Kensal Green cemetery.
So don’t underestimate the snowdrop – it’s a plant associated with life and death but watch out for your hens and the colour of your butter if you do decide to tempt fate…..
This is a more unusual symbol although hands often feature as motifs in cemeteries usually in the more familiar clasped hands..
The Pointing Finger is usually one finger, the index one, pointing upwards or downwards. On the three that I saw, it was the right hand that was being depicted with the remaining fingers and thumb turned down into the palm. I have yet to see the downward pointing version but rest assured that it doesn’t indicate that the departed is going ‘down below’ or to Hell. Instead it can signify an untimely, sudden or unexpected death. As you’ve probably already guessed, the upwardly pointed finger is meant to reassure the grieving family that their loved one has ascended to Heaven and has received the reward of the righteous.
However, I found these three lovely examples in Beckenham Cemetery during a recent visit, much to my surprise, and they made me wonder why it isn’t more popular. In all of these the pointing finger and hand are surrounded by flowers.
The first one is to John James Lumsden who died on 25 November 1903 aged 63. It’s very well carved with a daffodil on one side of the hand and two sprays of Lily of the Valley flanking the hand. When I first saw it, a thick branch of ivy obscured the flower on the other side of the daffodil. But on a return visit in January 2017 the branch had been trimmed back and a rose with one full blown bloom and a bud was now visible again. The bud is significant as it often appears on childrens graves to symbolise a life unlived, that never fully bloomed and was ‘nipped in the bud.’ But not on this one.
In floriography or the language of flowers the daffodil is an important representation of resurrection.This is because of its association with Easter, rebirth and renewal. The Lily of the Valley is also associated with Spring as its month is May. Other qualities that the Lily represents are chastity, purity and the return of happiness. It’s mentioned in The Song of Solomon 2.1
‘I am the rose of Sharon
And the lily of the valley.’
There’s also the legend that Mary’s tears turned into the lily of the valley at the exact spot when she cried at the Cross so an alternate name for the flowers is ‘Mary’s tears.’ The Lily is also meant to have healing powers and has other nicknames such as ‘Jacob’s Tears’ and ‘the ladder to heaven’.
This is to Charles Henry McKay who died on 1 November 1910 at only 23 and was the only son of Charles and Ellen McKay as it states on the epitaph. Although the flowers surrounding the pointing finger and hand are the same here as on Lumden’s, on this one they are more stylised and 2D. They would have mourned his short life and unfulfilled ambitions. So there is an added poignancy to the rosebud as his was a life cut short. There is also the word ‘GONE’ carved on the cuff of the hand which emphasises that he has gone to a better place. It really stood out amongst its neighbouring grey stones so it may have been recently cleaned or restored.
There is a third memorial featuring the pointed finger which is in the same style as Lumsden’s but not as well kept. .This was to ‘Will, eldest son of William and Sarah Greenfield. Born 10 December 1874 died 1 August 1905’
Again, another memorial to a life cut short as Will died aged only 31.Three other members of the Greenfield family are also commemorated on the headstone.
To our eyes they could be seen as sentimental but I found them very touching with their aim to comfort those left behind through the use of flowers.
But here’s a mystery from my own local churchyard:
This is to a woman who died at 38 called Georgiana Margaret Barns and it has a pointing finger on the headstone. But instead of pointing upwards or downwards, it’s pointing to the left and apparently into thin air. The hand appears to have a woman’s lacy cuff and I noticed that, although her husband’s dates are also recorded, he isn’t actually buried there. Instead he lies in Hilderstone churchyard in Stafford. He died at 76 nearly 20 years after his wife. Is the finger pointing towards his resting place? Is it a personal symbol known only to them? I found a few details about them online but not much more so I am intrigued and mystified by this one.
I have to admit that The Pointing Finger symbol does remind me a little of a palmist drawing of the hand but in the ones that I’ve seen it’s also very decorative and moving.
This lovely painting is above the altar at St Magnus the Martyr in the City of London. It’s a Christopher Wren church and there are several ancient churches in the area.
Another year has passed and Christmas is staring us in the eye again. But what about next year? What will it bring? I’m hoping for a better year for everyone and more church exploring! And of course discovering more symbols!
So I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
I came across this elegant little family group during the summer in a country churchyard. Although a couple are damaged, they are all still in reasonably good condition. The panels set into the stone crosses are made from metal with a floral painted decoration which I feel may be anticipating the Art Nouveau movement. It flourished from 1861 – 1914 and the dates of death would fit it with this.
On this one, dedicated to Charles William Elliott, the floral decoration is intact despite the epitaph being damaged and you can see the flowing, sinuous lines of the stems and petals which is typical of Art Nouveau. However, the inscription is in a Gothic style.
The epitaph above is very poignant as it’s dedicated to 4 children, 2 of whom died as babies and 2 others, presumably twins , who died at just under a year old. The epitaph is again in Gothic style with more restrained floral decoration and the addition of a cross.
This may be dedicated to the mother of the children who lived until she was in her 60’s and she seems to have been buried with another child who died at just under a year old.
The trio are one of the few memorials within the churchyard which still appear to be in their original place as most have been moved to an outer wall. They emphasise the high infant mortality rate during the 19th century which is why people often had big families. Not all the children were expected to survive. It must have been heartbreaking. I have only seen one other memorial in this style and it was in Highgate East cemetery.
So, an elegant and intriguing little trio of memorials that tell a sad story of a local family.
I’ve often seen headstones used as paving for paths in cemeteries and churchyards and sometimes feel a little uncomfortable when I see them used in this way.. This is because it feels as if ‘I’m walking over someone’s grave’ as the old saying goes. It seems to happen when the churchyard or cemetery has become a park with the headstones removed from their original location and often placed against a wall.
However in my local churchyard, St Margaret’s in Rochester, they have gone one step further and created a small set of steps that lead up to a grassed area. This is where the graves belonging to the people to whom the headstones belonged may still lie. The slope may also have been created by the bodies being buried on top of each other over the centuries which does happen in old burial places.
So I call it the Stairway to Heaven – a little irrelevant perhaps but I felt it’s appropriate!
This wonderful example of a medieval mori is dedicated to Master Ralph Hamsterley and doesn’t shrink back from depicting what awaits the viewer after death. It’s a symbol of death that’s designed to make the viewer think, not only of the man that placed it there, but also of their own mortality. However, it’s the only one that has survived from the original four that Hamsterley had placed in Oxford at least 10 years before his death in 1518.
I’ve made it a Symbol of the Month because it’s one of the most arresting and realistic symbols of death that I’ve ever seen.
The article comes from the https://medievalart.co.uk website which is well worth a look if you’re interested in medieval art and like poking around in churches as I do.
In the centre of the chancel at Oddington in Otmoor, in eastern Oxfordshire, is a large purbeck marble slab into which is set one of the most unusual monumental brasses from late medieval England. The brass consists of an effigy, a corpse in a tied shroud, with it’s hands in the attitude of prayer. The corpse is skeletal and well through the process of putrefaction and issuing out of the body cavity, from between the ribs, leg bones and from the sockets of the eyes, are wriggling maggots or worms. Such memento mori were not unusual in late medieval England, both shroud brasses and transi tombs were common from the middle of the fifteenth century and survive in some quantity, but this example is particularly grisly and intense.
Below the effigy is an inscription that identifies the persons commemorated, it asks for prayers for Master Ralph Hamsterley, a fellow of Merton College Oxford and Rector of Oddington. Issuing from the mouth of the Hamsterley’s cadaverous effigy, is a scroll, a Tudor speech bubble, with the following Latin rhyme:
Vermibus hic donor et sic ostendere conor quod sicut hic ponor: ponitor omnis honor.
This can be translated as:
Here I am, given to the worms, and thus I try to show That as I am laid aside here so is all honour laid aside.
Here laid before us is in brass is Hamsterley ‘given to the worms’. The brass must have been erected within Hamsterley’s lifetime. He died in 1518, but he actually ceased to be Rector of Oddington in 1508 and it is likely that the brass was erected before that time. As we will see, Hamsterley wasn’t actually buried here. Space has been left for the inclusion of Hamsterley’s date of death in the inscription, but this still remains blank, because he was buried elsewhere and ceased to have a connection with the place, nobody bothered to come and add his date of death.
So here ten years before his death, Hamsterley was clearly contemplating his own mortality and if this brass is anything to go by, seemingly thinking on the sheer futility of human vanity and honour. If you think that indicates that Hamsterley was a humble man, think again, people are always much more complex than that, aren’t they? In life Master Ralph Hamsterley was a man of great ambition. Although he held a number of parochial livings, he was primarily career scholar in Oxford. At the time the Oddington monument was being laid down, with all it’s self-deprecating imagery, Hamsterley was in the process of contemplating the latest move in his progression up the Tudor academic career ladder.
Born in the 1450s, he was a native of Durham, but by the late 1470s was a fellow of Merton college Oxford. He was a proctor on 1481 and served as principal of St Alban’s hall, next door to Merton and since incorporated into it. He spent the next twenty years in Oxford as a fellow at Merton and in both 1507 and 1508, he came very close to being elected Warden of Merton, but was defeated and the post went to others. Not to be downhearted, he then started looking elsewhere in Oxford for a similar position. In May of 1509 he decided to give a gift, of some sort, to University College. Although we don’t know precisely what the gift was, it was generous enough for the Master and fellows of University College to consider Hamsterley as a benefactor of the college and add his name to the obit roll of the college, so that his gift would be remembered for perpetuity. This gift, presumably financial, seems to have been part of calculated campaign to secure the Mastership at University College. It worked, very soon the Master of the college died and in September 1509, Hamsterley was duly elected as Master. His election was not without controversy, the college statutes stated that only fellows of the college could be elected Master and as fellow of another college, he was an outsider, and some of the fellowship resented his presence. His election was contested and he had to seek recourse to Archbishop Warham to be confirmed in the role and thereon in had trouble controlling the fellows. Nevertheless the ambitious Hamsterley remained as Master of University College, until his death in 1518.
After laying the brass at Oddington, Hamsterley began what can only be described as a campaign of a memorialisation across Oxford. The brass at Oddington was to be the first of a series of four brasses that Hamsterley would lay down in his own memory in his lifetime. The other brasses at Durham, University and Merton colleges are all now lost, but Anthony Wood the Oxford antiquarian, saw the University and Merton brasses in the 1650s and transcribed their inscriptions.
At University College, Hamsterley had a brass laid down right smack the middle of the college chapel. Wood tells us that ‘on a small marble stone, was the effigies of a man in a gown’, below was an inscription invoking prayers for Hamsterley’s soul and stating that he was fellow of Merton and Master of University college. He wasn’t going to have his great benefaction of May 1509 forgotten and unusually the inscription on the brass records the obit, stating that his obit should be kept on the second feria after the feast of the Holy Trinity – forever!
The brass he laid at Merton college, his alma mater, was also rather unusual. It was in the south transept of Merton and was not just a memorial to Hamsterley but also commemorated a friend, colleague and rival. Wood tells that that on the same stone, there were two brass effigies of men side by side and below them a double inscription. The first portion of the inscription invoked prayers for the repose of the soul of Thomas Harper, who was Warden of Merton between 1507-1508, the man Hamsterley had lost out to in the 1507 election. The second portion of the inscription asks for prayers for Hamsterley himself, who is referred to here as Master of University college, as well as a fellow of Merton, indicating that the brass was erected after September 1509, well over a year after Harper’s death. Were Harper and Hamsterley friends, or was erecting this double monument to a former Warden and rival, an attempt by Hamsterley to ingratiate himself with the Merton fellowship and further his career? Although Harper was buried in his living in Bristol and not here, when Hamsterley died he appears to have been buried underneath this brass at Merton. He was determined he would not be forgotten in his old college and he endowed a chantry priest ‘Hamsterley’s chaplain’, to sing masses for his soul at the altar of St Catherine in the chapel at Merton. It was probably before that altar that the brass was placed.
These three brasses laid down by one man, reveal an awful lot about his personality, his piety and his ambition. Ralph Hamsterley was a man of clear contradictions, well aware of his own mortality and prepared to invest in his memorialisation well before his own demise; he was clearly a man of significant ability too, an ambitious man who was determined to make his mark and to be remembered in Oxford.
Sources Details of the brasses in Merton and University Colleges are found in: J. Gutch (ed.), The History and Antiquities of the Colleges and Halls in the University of Oxford: by Anthony Wood (Oxford, 1886), pp. 26-27 & 62.
Sources on the life of Hamsterley and his career: G. C. Brodrick, Memorials of Merton College (Oxford, 1885), pp. 162 and 240. J. M. Fletcher and C. A. Upton, ‘Destruction, Repair and Removal: An Oxford College Chapel during the Reformation’ in Oxoniensia 48 (1983), p. 122 R. Darwall-Smith, Early Records of University College, Oxford (Oxford, 2015), p. xvi
shadows fly away 