I and the two ponies that carried my impedimenta.
We had traversed mountain roads which had echoed to the marching feet of the hosts of Darius, Anglie Dres Dámské to the hordes of the Satraps. The highways of the Achaemenids — yes, and which before them had trembled to the tramplings of the myriads of the godlike Dravidian conquerors.
We had slipped over Hertha Berliner Dresy ancient Iranian trails; over paths which the warriors of conquering Alexander had traversed; dust of bones of Macedons, of Greeks, of Romans, beat about us; ashes of the flaming Jacques Plante Tröja ambitions of the Sassanidae whimpered beneath our feet — the feet of an American botanist, a Chinaman, two Tibetan ponies. We had crept through clefts POLO Pays Bas whose walls had sent back the howlings of the Ephthalites, the White Huns who had sapped the strength of these same proud Sassanids until at last both fell before the Turks.
Over the highways and byways of Persia’s glory, Persia’s shame and Persia’s death we four — two men, two beasts — had passed. For a fortnight we had met no human soul, seen no sign of human habitation.
Game had been plentiful — green things Chiu-Ming might lack for his cooking, but meat never. About us was a welter of mighty summits. We were, I knew, somewhere within the blending of the Hindu-Kush with the Trans-Himalayas.
That morning we had come out of a ragged defile into this valley of enchantment, and here, though it had been so early, I had pitched my tent, determining to go no farther till the morrow.
It was a Phocean vale; a gigantic cup filled with Belstaff Maple Kurtki tranquillity. A spirit brooded over it, serene, majestic, immutable — like Calle Rosen Tröja the untroubled calm which Survetement Argentine rests, the Burmese believe, over every place which has guarded the Buddha, sleeping.
At its eastern end towered the colossal scarp of the unnamed peak through one of whose gorges we had crept. On his Maillot Real Betis head was a cap of silver set with pale emeralds — the snow fields and glaciers that crowned him. Far to the west another gray and ochreous giant reared its bulk, closing the vale. North and south, the horizon was a chaotic sky land of pinnacles, spired Maillot David Luiz and minareted, steepled and turreted and domed, each diademed with its green and argent of eternal ice and snow.
And all the valley was carpeted with the blue poppies in wide, unbroken fields, luminous as the morning skies of mid-June; they rippled mile after mile over the path we had followed, over the still untrodden path which we must take. They nodded, they leaned toward each other, they seemed Niger Dresy to whisper — then to lift their heads and look up like crowding swarms of Henri Richard Tröja little azure fays, half impudently, wholly trustfully, into the faces of the jeweled giants standing guard over them. And when the little breeze walked upon them it was as though they bent beneath the soft tread and were brushed by the sweeping skirts of unseen, hastening Presences.
Like a vast prayer-rug, sapphire and silken, the poppies stretched to the gray feet of the mountain. Between their southern edge and the clustering summits a row Survetement Danemark of faded brown, low hills knelt — liklinks:
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi
http://ars.userfriendly.org/cartoons/post.cgi
http://www.myip.cn/cgimage.lv |
