There ain't no wind will blow on me after I'm dead, but I'll be blanketed safe from head to foot in cool, sweet-smellin' sod--the kind that has tangles of the roots of grass.

There ain't no snow will reach to me where I lie.

There ain't no sun will burn down to me.

Dyin' like that is jest--goin' to sleep." After that he said nothing for a time, and the late afternoon darkened slowly through the room.
As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind went back.

He did not see the bearded wreck who lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene, with the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burning gold, and a handsome young giant beside her.