Greens and purples are called forth to replace the prevailing
blue. Far out at sea, great separate mounds of water rear
themselves, as if to overlook the tossing plain. Sometimes these
move onward and subside with their green hue still unbroken, and
again they curve into detached hillocks of foam, white,
multitudinous, side by side, not ridged, but moving on like a mob
of white horses, neck overarching neck, breast crowded against
breast.

Across those tumultuous waves I like to watch, after sunset, the
revolving light; there is something about it so delicate and
human. It seems to bud or bubble out of the low, dark horizon; a
moment, and it is not, and then another moment, and it is. With
one throb the tremulous light is born; with another throb it has
reached its full size, and looks at you, coy and defiant; and
almost in that instant it is utterly gone. You cannot conceive
yourself to be watching something which merely turns on an axis;
but it seems suddenly to expand, a flower of light, or to close,
as if soft petals of darkness clasped it in. During its moments
of absence, the eye cannot quite keep the memory of its precise
position, and it often appears a hair-breadth to the right or
left of the expected spot. This enhances the elfish and fantastic
look, and so the pretty game goes on, with flickering surprises,
every night and all night long. But the illusion of the seasons
is just as oquettish; and when next summer comes to us, with its
blossoms and its joys, it will dawn as softly out of the darkness
and as softly give place to winter once more.