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.  No life!  Nothing but the creeping wind, and those great rocky heights, whence came the sound of falling-symbols of that cold, untimely state into which we, too, must pass.  Never more to love, nor to be loved!  One could but turn to the earth, and press one’s face to it, away from the wild loveliness.  Of what use loveliness that must be lost; of what use loveliness when one could not love?  The earth was warm and firm beneath the palms of the hands; but there still came the sound of the impartial wind, and the careless roar of the stories falling.

Below, in those valleys amongst the living trees and grass, was the comradeship of unnumbered life, so that to pass out into Peace, to step beyond, to die, seemed but a brotherly act, amongst all those others; but up here, where no creature breathed, we saw the heart of the desert that stretches before each little human soul.  Up here, it froze the spirit; even Peace seemed mocking—­hard as a stone.  Yet, to try and hide, to tuck one’s head under one’s own wing, was not possible in this air so crystal clear, so far above incense and the narcotics of set creeds, and the fevered breath of prayers and protestations.  Even to know that between organic and inorganic matter there is no gulf fixed, was of no peculiar comfort.  The jealous wind came creeping over the lifeless limestone, removing even the poor solace of its warmth; one turned from it, desperate, to look up at the sky, the blue, burning, wide, ineffable, far sky.

Then slowly, without reason, that icy fear passed into a feeling, not of joy, not of peace, but as if Life and Death were exalted into what was neither life nor death, a strange and motionless vibration, in which one had been merged, and rested, utterly content, equipoised, divested of desire, endowed with life and death.