Every
rock temple then becomes a temple of music; every spire and pinnacle an
angel of light and song, shouting color halleluiahs.
As the day draws to a close, shadows, wondrous, black, and thick, like
those of the morning, fill up the wall hollows, while the glowing rocks,
their rough angles burned off, seem soft and hot to the heart as they
stand submerged in purple haze, which now fills the canon like a sea.
Still deeper, richer, more divine grow the great walls and temples, until
in the supreme flaming glory of sunset the whole canon is transfigured,
as if all the life and light of centuries of sunshine stored up and
condensed in the rocks was now being poured forth as from one glorious
fountain, flooding both earth and sky.
Strange to say, in the full white effulgence of the midday hours the bright
colors grow dim and terrestrial in common gray haze; and the rocks, after
the manner of mountains, seem to crouch and drowse and shrink to less than
half their real stature, and have nothing to say to one, as if not at home.
But it is fine to see how quickly they come to life and grow radiant and
communicative as soon as a band of white clouds come floating by. As if
shouting for joy, they seem to spring up to meet them in hearty salutation,
eager to touch them and beg their blessings. It is just in the midst of
these dull midday hours that the canon clouds are born.
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