110 THE MOUNTAINS 



sharply against the sky. He stops, turns 

 partly around, and looks toward Spezia 

 and Florence. Then he becomes aware 

 of the complex beauty of the immediate 

 scene. In spite of his weariness, in spite 

 of his loneliness, in spite of his spiritual 

 agony, he is the poet now with every sense 

 alert. Nothing escapes him. He notes 

 the gathering lift of the waves before they 

 strike the rocks, the rhythmic groaning 

 of the bare-legged fishermen as they haul 

 their boat through the swishing surf, the 

 hawk sailing high and then hovering over 

 his prey, the young men loudly singing 

 at their work, higher up on the mountain 

 side, the black-eyed girl leading a goat 

 over the ledge, the nameless yellow 

 flowers here and there, bravely growing 

 in the scanty soil, the shifting of the light 

 as a cloud passes over the mountain. Last 

 of all he makes a careful calculation as to 

 the precise angle of his ascent, and stores 

 the fact away in his memory for compara- 

 tive use in his immortal poem: 



