Sunset and Evening Star
There is something solemn, and even awe-inspiring in the splendid beauty of the sky as the sun sets in the west. The poet Wordsworth felt it when he wrote—
“The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept wateh o’er man’s mortality.”
Watch the sun setting behind the mountains. As it slowly sinks lower and lower in the western sky, its long level beams light up the green fields and all the trees and bushes with a golden glow, making every object clear and distinct. The clouds above the sinking sun begin to glow with a golden light, and the mountains are clothed in royal purple. The white dome and minarets of a mosque a little distance away look as though they were made of silver.
At last the great fiery ball of the sun begins to sink behind the purple mountain wall. Lower and lower it sinks, until, look! it is gone! But its light still fills the sky and the over-hanging clouds. The clouds change from gold to red, till they glow like a shouldering fire. The clear sky between the lower cloud-banks and the mountain ridge is like a sea of molten gold, dotted with dark cloud-islets. The gold slowly changes to a clear pale green; and in the midst of it shines a faint point of silver light—the evening star. And in the still air a musical voice begins chanting—the Muezzin crying the Azan from the distant ‘mosque’, calling the faithful to prayer.
Now the glowing red of the clouds begins to fade, like a dying fire. It fades away till all the clouds are grey like ash, and the mountains look black, clear cut against the pale green sky, where the evening star is shining more brightly every moment.
Below on the plain, the light gradually becomes dimmer and dimmer, until in the twilight the fields are almost dark, and trees and bushes stand out dead black. The twilight, casts a mysterious glamour over everything, and ordinary objects seem strange and weird.
“Remote with unfamiliar charm At dusk familiar objects seem, And like strange pictures in a dream Are bush and tree and silent stream, And garden-craft and farm.” Gradually it becomes darker and darker, until nothing can be seen but the dark hills against the sky. One by one the stars come out. The night has come. All is very still. No sound is to be heard except the soft rustling of the night breeze in trees now unseen. Another day has gone; but—”We fret not when day wanes, and farewell gleams Or sundown fade to dusk, and dusk to night, Knowing the turning earth in its wide way Will swing us back again into the light.”
