How fine has the day been! how bright was the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run! Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there followed some droppings of rain: But now the fair travelers come to the west, his rays are all gold and his beauties are best; he paints the skies gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretells a bright rising again.----- Isaac Watts
Loverly!
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