noon
And this day-magic of azure endures sometimes for months together . Cloudlessly the dawn reddens up through a violet east : there is no speck upon the blossoming of its Mystical Rose , -- unless it be the silhouette of some passing gull , whirling his sickle-wings against the crimsoning . Ever , as the sun floats higher , the flood shifts its color . Sometimes smooth and gray , yet flickering with the morning gold , it is the vision of John , -- the apocalyptic Sea of Glass mixed with fire ; -- again , with the growing breeze , it takes that incredible purple tint familiar mostly to painters of West Indian scenery ; -- once more , under the blaze of noon , it changes to a waste of broken emerald . With evening , the horizon assumes tints of inexpressible sweetness , -- pearl-lights , opaline colors of milk and fire ; and in the west are topaz-glowings and wondrous flushings as of nacre . Then , if the sea sleeps , it dreams of all these , -- faintly , weirdly , -- shadowing them even to the verge of heaven . Beautiful , too , are those white phantasmagoria which , at the approach of equinoctial days , mark the coming of the winds .