English, asked by drrdigvijay33, 7 months ago

name the figure of speech used in this line " the palid mist and spreading shroud​

Answers

Answered by manjegowda4488
0

Answer:

The journey lasts for days and days.

We trek up valley, hill and slope

We carry with ourselves the hope

To traverse strange, untrodden ways.

We enter now a world of clouds.

Along the way we hear the call

Of mountain wind and waterfall.

The pallid mist is spreading shrouds.

At last we reach the final peak.

The summit beckons us to come

The air is cold, our feet are numb.

We climb to reach the grail we seek.

The path is steep and narrow there.

It snakes its way—these stairs of stone

Now mark the route we make our own.

The sunshine gilds the lucid air.

The peak is stark with gelid snow.

We look where sky and earth have merged,

From high above. Our souls are purged.

Forgotten lies the world below.

Returning

These, my days,

have stopped where I myself had stood

just a while ago.

Thus far and no further, they say—

we won’t go any more on foot.

I see them sitting by the river’s edge,

swishing vague feet

in the muddy silence of its water.

I sigh, and start once again.

My body trundles along wearily,

creaking and swaying

under its new, unfamiliar load.

My days, piled upon each other

as though on a bullock-cart,

jostling for space on my back.

Only my feet seem to know

where this rutted track is taking us.

I watch them walk on and on,

till they blur into the spokes

of my uncaring wheels.

The trees and bushes by the road

are overhung with wild creepers

matted and ashen into an ascetic’s unkempt hairs

by the murky light of this my evening.

Underfoot, the dried mud and slush

hardly conceal the stones and boulders

and make for a bumpy ride.

The black basalt shoulders of my road

have their skins stretched

across fleshless old bones.

From the leaves overhead,

clustered spaces of sky

count its ribs with the scraps of light

they sometimes let through.

Countless carts have returned this way,

stripping it of all its clods.

The knobbed tufts of grass

make up the only backbone

that has been spared by the ruts.

My axle wobbles on,

following the spoor of this green spine

into the beckoning darkness.

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