One
splendour, in particular, I remember--wings of deep carmine, with
an inner down of warm gray, around a form of brilliant whiteness.
She had been found as the sun went down through a low sea- fog,
casting crimson along a broad sea-path into a little cave on the
shore, where a bathing maiden saw her lying.
But though I speak of sun and fog, and sea and shore, the world
there is in some respects very different from the earth whereon
men live. For instance, the waters reflect no forms. To the
unaccustomed eye they appear, if undisturbed, like the surface of
a dark metal, only that the latter would reflect indistinctly,
whereas they reflect not at all, except light which falls
immediately upon them. This has a great effect in causing the
landscapes to differ from those on the earth. On the stillest
evening, no tall ship on the sea sends a long wavering reflection
almost to the feet of him on shore; the face of no maiden
brightens at its own beauty in a still forest-well. The sun and
moon alone make a glitter on the surface. The sea is like a sea
of death, ready to ingulf and never to reveal: a visible shadow
of oblivion. Yet the women sport in its waters like gorgeous
sea-birds. The men more rarely enter them. But, on the
contrary, the sky reflects everything beneath it, as if it were
built of water like ours. Of course, from its concavity there is
some distortion of the reflected objects; yet wondrous
combinations of form are often to be seen in the overhanging
depth.
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