Have not my musings melted into its rocky walls and sandy floor and made them a portion of myself ? It is a recess in the line of cliffs , walled round by a rough , high precipice which almost encircles and shuts in a little space of sand . In front the sea appears as between the pillars of a portal ; in the rear the precipice is broken and intermixed with earth which gives nourishment not only to clinging and twining shrubs , but to trees that grip the rock with their naked roots and seem to struggle hard for footing and for soil enough to live upon . These are fir trees , but oaks hang their heavy branches from above , and throw down acorns on the beach , and shed their withering foliage upon the waves . At this autumnal season the precipice is decked with variegated splendor . Trailing wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward ; tufts of yellow-flowering shrubs and rose-bushes , with their reddened leaves and glossy seed-berries , sprout from each crevice ; at every glance I detect some new light or shade of beauty , all contrasting with the stern gray rock . A rill of water trickles down the cliff and fills a little cistern near the base . I drain it at a draught , and find it fresh and pure . This recess shall be my dining-hall . And what the feast ? A few biscuits made savory by soaking them in sea-water , a tuft of samphire gathered from the beach , and an apple for the dessert . By this time the little rill has filled its reservoir again , and as I quaff it I thank God more heartily than for a civic banquet that he gives me the healthful appetite to make a feast of bread and water . Dinner being over , I throw myself at length upon the sand and , basking in the sunshine , let my mind disport itself at will . The walls of this my hermitage have no tongue to tell my follies , though I sometimes fancy that they have ears to hear them and a soul to sympathize . There is a magic in this spot . Dreams haunt its precincts and flit around me in broad sunlight , nor require that sleep shall blindfold me to real objects ere these be visible . Here can I frame a story of two lovers , and make their shadows live before me and be mirrored in the tranquil water as they tread along the sand , leaving no footprints . Here , should I will it , I can summon up a single shade and be myself her lover . -- Yes , dreamer , but your lonely heart will be the colder for such fancies . -- Sometimes , too , the Past comes back , and finds me here , and in her train come faces which were gladsome when I knew them , yet seem not gladsome now .
Would that my hiding-place were lonelier , so that the Past might not XXXXX me !
basking being decked encircles fills find finds let mirrored soaking