On the warm
stones, in full sunlight, uplifted over all the beauty of Italy, one felt
at first only delight in space and wild loveliness, in the unknown
valleys, and the strength of the sun. It was so good to be alive; so
ineffably good to be living in this most wonderful world, drinking air
nectar.
Behind us, from the three mountains, came the frequent thud and scuffle
of falling rocks, loosened by rains. The wind, mist, and winter snow had
ground the powdery stones on which we lay to a pleasant bed, but once on
a time they, too, had clung up there. And very slowly, one could not say
how or when, the sense of joy began changing to a sense of fear. The
awful impersonality of those great rock-creatures, the terrible
impartiality of that cold, clinging wind which swept by, never an inch
lifted above ground! Not one tiny soul, the size of a midge or rock
flower, lived here. Not one little "I" breathed here, and loved!
And we, too, some day would no longer love, having become part of this
monstrous, lovely earth, of that cold, whiffling air. To be no longer
able to love! It seemed incredible, too grim to bear; yet it was true!
To become powder, and the wind; no more to feel the sunlight; to be loved
no more! To become a whiffling noise, cold, without one's self! To
drift on the breath of that noise, homeless! Up here, there were not even
those little velvet, grey-white flower-comrades we had plucked.
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