Cloudlessly, the dawn reddens through a purple east: there is hardly a speck upon the blossoming of its mystical rose unless it be the silhouette of some passing fog or flight of birds, whirring their wings against the mighty crimsoning. As the sun rises higher, the light shifts color. Sometimes the light is smooth and flickering with the morning gold, it is the vision of water mixed with fire and growing breeze–the aesthetic takes that incredible tint familiar to painters of impressionists on water scenery. When evening approaches the horizon assumes tints of inexpressible opaline colors of milk, honey and topaz glowingly wondrous as ever. Then as the sea sleeps, it dreams of all its colors–faintly, weirdly–placing shadows on the verge of heaven.
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