Nor purple dawn pursues the graying dark;
And no child laughs; and no wind bears away
The bursting glory of the meadow-lark;
Then—then it may be—never until then
May death be dreadful or assurance wane
That we shall die a while, to waken when
New morning summons us to earth again.
CHAPTER XXVII
UNDER THE BRAHMAPUTRA.
Smoke came from the hut, through a hole in the roof, giving the sharp air a delicious tang, all mixed with the aroma of fallen leaves and pine trunks. Over beyond the hut spray splashed from the waterfall—rose-colored diamonds against moss-green. The air was full of bird-music, that the ear caught after it was once used to the ponderous roar of water.