[Manchester—Thursday, 16 August 1866]
Thursday. Went down to the beach—the stormy north east wind had blown up the waves and a feathery foam was blowing back over the grey breast of ocean. The waves fell with a huge billowy softness upon the sands, heavy as fate and soft as charity. Returning I wrote a little here and saw Miss Lissie come in with radiant spoils for her painting of half ripened wild cherry, Golden Rod, yellow & brown, and sprays of blackberry. We shall have high seas if the wind holds and I almost trust it may. How full of plans for work this weather makes one—yet I do—nothing—alas! the great strong days pass—why is it?
