Herald and news., June 01, 1958, Page 32, Image 32

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"i love sunsets," writes the young girl in Abilene, Tex.
"Sometime for me would you write about sunsets? I think
they're certainly one of God's great works."
They are, Stephanie. Whatever may preoccupy my
mind, I have only to pass a window which frames
the sun's farewell and I am lost in wonder.
At this moment, for example, I was on my way to the
kitchen. I passed the particular haven which is my
workroom view and was trapped in the magic meshes of the
end of day. And now I have no interest at all in whether
dinner becomes reality or burns in the process.
The flame of sun in clouds melts into mauve. The memory
of light above it is gold and yellow and some quite
elusive color I have never seen before. I will not see it
again, only this once, for each sunset is like no other,
as each day is never the same for any man.
And now the light is pale and old but no less lovely. The
pines are dreams and the land sleeps. The heaven once
blue in brilliance is tired and gentle, as though even
the color of it was meant to induce rest for the weary body
and solace for the tired sight. The clouds, feather-white
in the morning, are soiled with use and awkward as a
child who loses his grace when he falls asleep at play.
But the drama of day's decline is not yet complete, for I
have learned to wait for the first star, the signal of
night. It is a particularly bright star, this one, and I seem
to remember I have heard something scientific about it.
But I am as disinterested in the vital statistics as in
my kitchen waiting.
All I know about the star is all I need to know that it
lifts my eyes to its beacon and soothes me somehow
as it might if I were a lone sailor sighting
the lighthouse of home.
So we sit here together, the sunset and I. One of us
moves and changes and dims and passes away. The other
rests unchanged and waits the beginning of the
new play produced by night.
This is Longfellow's "between the dark and the daylight,"
but night for me will never lower. Night for me neither
threatens nor forebodes nor sets upon me like a
heavy curtain. Perhaps a part of the exhilaration within me
is the knowledge that beyond night comes another dawn,
another day. Perhaps that is a part of the enchant
ment, that darkness is not forever and light always
lies over the far horizon.
I can write no longer, for suddenly the sun remembers
earth and gives it a final glory of rose and turns a
gray sky blue again like an echo. And there in the
branch of the young tree I see it waiting.
The shining symbol of a promise.
The first star.
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