With Jackson there was quiet solitude. Just to sit and look at the landscape. An inner quietness. After dinner, to sit on the back porch and look at the light. No need for talking. For any kind of communication.
That golden sky, which was the doubly blessed symbol of advancing day and of approaching rest.
I'm not one of those people who wakes up and thinks, 'Bring on the day!' I have to have about 7 pints of coffee before I'm even remotely awake. But I love the golden hour in the evening, as hokey as that sounds. Just as the sun is about to set and you get those lovely shadows and everything looks gold and yellow.
Sitting in the morning sun, I'll be sitting when the evening comes
At this sunset hour, the canyon walls are indescribably beautiful and I fear the magic of photography can never record what I see now. The tall spires near the canyon's top and the walls of the canyon up there look as if God had reached out and swiped a brush of golden paint across them, gilding these rocks in the bright glow of the setting sun.
Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.
The sun was a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed: It was past eight thirty and still light.
Sunset is the saddest light there is.
Bursts of gold on lavender melting into saffron. It's the time of day when the sky looks like it has been spray-painted by a graffiti artist.
In that dilated moment after sunset when the sky holds all the light.
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows in yonder West; the fair, frail palaces, The fading Alps and archipelagoes and great cloud continents of sunset-seas.
The short winter’s day was drawing to a close. It seems to me sometimes that these are the only days I have ever known, and especially that most charming moment of all, just before night wipes them out.
Sundown had bloodied the horizon over the uneven rooftops of South Boston. Birds were perched on every roof and seemed to be watching the girl walking slowly below. - Cradle and All
Fading light buttered the ridges until shadows licked them clean and they were lost to nightfall.
Don't let the sun go down on me.
Why did dusk and fir-scent and the afterglow of autumnal sunsets make people say absurd things?
The sun is coming down to earth, and the fields and the waters shout to him golden shouts.
After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars
How beautiful is sunset when the glow Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
Late afternoon on the West Coast ends with the sky doing all its brilliant stuff.
The approach of night The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
The sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West.
Toil is the portion of day, as sleep is that of night; but if there be one hour of the twenty-four which has the life of day without its labor, and the rest of night without its slumber, it is the lovely and languid hour of twilight.
