The death-bed of a clay, how beautiful!
The West is crimson with retiring day, and the North gleams with its own native light.
The zenith spreads its canopy of sapphire, and the West has a magnificent array of clouds, and as the breeze plays on them they assume the forms of mountains, castled cliffs and hills, and shadowy glens, and groves, and beetling rocks, and some in golden masses float, and others have edges of burning crimson.—Never from the birth of time were scattered o'er the glowing sky more splendid colorings.
The sun, when he from noon declines, and with abated heat less fiercely shines; seems to grow milder as he goes away.
Sunsets in themselves are generally superior to sunrises; and with the sunset we appreciate images drawn from departed peace, and faded glory.
More joyful eyes look at the setting, than at the rising sun.—Burdens are laid down by the poor, whom the sun consoles more than the rich.—I yearn toward him when he sets, not when he rises.
The weary sun hath made a golden set; and by the light track of his fiery car, gives token of a goodly day tomorrow.
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best, as painting the skies he sinks down in the West, and foretells a bright rising again.