"We had a remarkable sunset one day last November. I was walking in a
meadow, the source of a small brook, when the sun at last, just before
setting, after a cold, gray day, reached a clear stratum in the horizon,
and the softest, brightest morning sunlight fell on the dry grass and
on the stems of the trees in the opposite horizon and on the leaves of
the shrub oaks on the hillside, while our shadows stretched long over
the meadow eastward, as if we were the only motes in its beams. It was
such a light as we could not have imagined a moment before, and the air
also was so warm and serene that nothing was wanting to make a paradise
of that meadow. When we reflected that this was not a solitary
phenomenon, never to happen again, but that it would happen forever and
ever, an infinite number of evenings, and cheer and reassure the latest
child that walked there, it was more glorious still.
The sun sets
on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory
and splendor that it lavishes on cities, and perchance as it has never
set before--where there is but a solitary marsh hawk to have his wings
gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his cabin, and there is
some little black-veined brook in the midst of the marsh, just beginning
to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump. We walked in so pure
and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly
and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed in such a golden
flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west side of every wood
and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of Elysium, and the sun on
our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving us home at evening.
So
we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more
brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and
hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as
warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn."
