Last night I went up on Beacon Hill and rose into the clouds. Everywhere was beautiful, full of colour and life. There were bulging clouds and little fussing ones, light and shadow clouds and blue, blue sky between. The broom was a wonderful green. The sea, too, was mysterious and a little hazy. There were two bright spots of gold peering through a black cloud and sending beams of light down. I thought they might have been God’s eyes. Tonight it was all different, so bitterly cold, and hard, angry-looking bunches of cloud, and everything beaten about and sallow-looking and mad. One didn’t want to linger but get back to the fire.
—Emily Carr, 1931
