The road winds white among ashen hills grey clouds overhead grey sea below. The road clings to the strong capes hangs above the white foam-line of unheard breakers that edge with lace the scarf of the sea sweeping marbled with sunlight to the dark horizon towards which steering intently like ducks with red bellies swim the black laden steamers. The wind blows the dust of the road and whines in the dead grass and is silent. I can hear my steps and the clink of coins in one pocket and the distant hush of the sea. _On the highroad to Villajoyosa_ XX SIERRA GUADARRAMA TO J. G. P. The greyish snow of the pass is starred with the sad lilac of autumn crocuses. Hissing among the brown leaves of the scruboaks bruising the tender crocus petals a sleetgust sweeps the pass. The air is calm again. Under a bulging sky motionless overhead the mountains heave velvet black into the cloudshut distance. South the road winds down a wide valley towards stripes of rain through which shine straw yellow faint as a dream the rolling lands of New Castile. A fresh gust whines through the snowbent grass pelting with sleet the withering crocuses, and rustles the dry leaves of the scruboaks with a sound as of gallop of hoofs far away on the grey stony road a sound as of faintly heard cavalcades of old stern kings climbing the cold iron passes stopping to stare with cold hawkeyes at the pale plain. _Puerto de Navecerrada_ XXI Soft as smoke are the blue green pines in the misty lavender twilight yellow as flame the flame-shaped poplars whose dead leaves fall vaguely spinning through the tinted air till they reach the brownish mirror of the stream where they are borne a tremulous pale fleet over gleaming ripples to the sudden dark beneath the Roman bridge. Forever it stands the Roman bridge a firm strong arch in the purple mist and ever the yellow leaves are swirled into the darkness beneath where echoes forever the tramp of feet of the weary feet that bore the Eagles and the Law. And through the misty lavender twilight the leaves of the poplars fall and float with the silent stream to the deep night beneath the Roman bridge. _Cercedilla_ XXII In the velvet calm of long grey slopes of snow the silky crunch of my steps. About me vague dark circles of mountains secret, listening in the intimate silence.