And as darkness falls the flood tide sweeps over the marshes and the land is covered. Gone are the white stones and the cowrie shells. And the surge of the sea, once far-off and faint, comes louder now, creeping towards the sands. The first clouds of evening are gathering beyond the Dodman. Then, half-consciously, I become aware of a shadow, of a sudden droop of the spirit. Once again-and this I know is fancy-it seems to me that the tide ebbs always in the middle of the day, when hope is highest and my mood is still. How blue and hard is the sea as it curls westward from the bay, and the Blackhead, darkly purple, leans to the deep water like a sloping shoulder. The mist and cloud have gone, and the sun, high now and full of warmth, holds revel with my ebb tide. Nothing is regretted, and I am happy and proud. It is a strange, joyous feeling, this streak back to the past. When the water drains from the marshes, and little by little the yellow sands appear, rippling and hard and firm, it seems to my foolish fancy, as I lie here, that I too go seaward with the tide, and all my old hidden dreams that I thought buried for all time are bare and naked to the day, just as the shells and the stones are on the sands. Because of this, the tall grass in the meadow never dries, but long past midday shimmers and glistens in the sun, the great drops of moisture hanging motionless upon the stems. A white mist hides the bay sometimes until noon, and hangs about the marshes too, leaving, when it lifts, a breath of cold air behind it. The sun no longer strikes my eastern window as I wake, but, turning laggard, does not top the hill before eight o'clock.
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