The next morning I was out before "jocund day stood tiptoe on the
breezy mountain tops." I have seen many sunrises In this world and one
other: I have watched the moon slowly rolling its deep valleys for
weeks into its morning sunlight. I knew what to expect. But nature
always surpasses expectations. The sinuosities of the rim sent back
their various colors. A hundred domes and spires, wind sculptured and
water sculptured, reached up like Memnon to catch the first light of
the sun, and seemed to me to break out into Memnonian music. As the
world rolled the steady light penetrated deeper, shadows diminished,
light spaces broadened and multiplied, till it seemed as if a new
creation were veritably going forward and a new "Let there be light"
had been uttered. I had seen it for the first time the night before in
the mellow light of a nearly full moon, but the sunlight really seemed
to make, in respect to breadth, depth, and definiteness, a new creation.
One peculiar effect I never noticed elsewhere. It is well known that
the blue sky is not blue and there is no sky. Blue is the color of the
atmosphere, and when seen in the miles deep overhead, or condensed in a
jar, it shows its own true color. So, looking into this inconceivable
canon, the true color came out most beauteously. There was a
background of red and yellowish rocks.
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