AT the top of the hill the north-westerly wind blows fresh, but here
under the cliffs the sun strikes warm as in June. There is not a cloud
in the sky, and behind me broken, chalk pinnacles intensely white rise
into the clear blue, which is bluer by their contrast. In front lies the
calm, light-sapphire ocean with a glittering sun-path on it broadening
towards the horizon. All recollection of bare trees and dead leaves has
gone. The tide is drawing down and has left bare a wide expanse of
smooth untrodden sand through which ridges run of chalk rock black with
weed. The sand is furrowed by little rivulets from the abandoned pools
above, and at its edge long low waves ripple over it, flattening
themselves out in thin sheets which invade one another with infinitely
complex, graceful curves. I look southward: there is nothing between me
and the lands of heat but the water. It unites me with them.
It is wonderful that winter should suddenly abdicate and summer resume
her throne. On a morning like this there is no death, the sin of the
world is swallowed up; theological and metaphysical problems cease to
have any meaning. Men and books make me painfully aware of my littleness
and defects, but here on the shore in silence complete save for the music
of the ebbing sea, they vanish.
When I am again in London and at work the dazzling light will not be
extinguished, and will illuminate the dreary darkness of the city.