Far down below this range to-day A waft of morning pureness fills The blue ravines that stretch away To lose themselves among the hills.
And, like a shrouded diadem, Beyond the peaks set row on row, Looms northern India’s mystic gem, The crown of Himalayan snow.
These lower heights which close us in A more ethereal jewel wear, There seems, where sheer descents begin, A radiant mirage in the air,
For, with its veil of rose and foam A-quiver like transparent wings, To the stern ramparts of its home The wild hill cherry-blossom clings.
Own sister to the clouds of dawn, Each magic tree o’erhangs the brink, Its slender stems like lattice drawn, Dark, on a fairyland of pink.
Three days agone no sign was ours, No voice to cry the coming hope That autumn’s wave would break in flowers And roll in torrents down the slope;
But as, when darkness rends apart, A shaft of glory pierces through, Joy’s hand has pierced the mountain’s heart And all the barren world is new.
❦