hundred feet from the
regular rim wall, I felt isolated, marooned.

The sun, a liquid red globe, had just touched its under side to the
pink cliffs of Utah, and fired a crimson flood of light over the
wonderful mountains, plateaus, escarpments, mesas, domes and turrets or
the gorge. The rim wall of Powell's Plateau was a thin streak of fire;
the timber above like grass of gold; and the long slopes below shaded
from bright to dark. Point Sublime, bold and bare, ran out toward the
plateau, jealously reaching for the sun. Bass's Tomb peeped over the
Saddle. The Temple of Vishnu lay bathed in vapory shading clouds, and
the Shinumo Altar shone with rays of glory.

The beginning of the wondrous transformation, the dropping of the day's
curtain, was for me a rare and perfect moment. As the golden splendor
of sunset sought out a peak or mesa or escarpment, I gave it a name to
suit my fancy; and as flushing, fading, its glory changed, sometimes I
rechristened it. Jupiter's Chariot, brazen wheeled, stood ready to roll
into the clouds. Semiramis's Bed, all gold, shone from a tower of
Babylon. Castor and Pollux clasped hands over a Stygian river. The Spur
of Doom, a mountain shaft as red as hell, and inaccessible,
insurmountable, lured with strange light. Dusk, a bold, black dome, was
shrouded by the shadow of a giant mesa. The Star of Bethlehem glittered
from the brow of Point Sublime. The Wraith, fleecy, feathered curtain
of mist, floated down among the ruins of castles and palaces, like the
ghost of a goddess. Vales of Twilight, dim, dark ravines, mystic homes
of specters, led into the awful Valley of the Shadow, clothed in purple
night.

Suddenly, as the first puff of the night wind fanned my cheek, a
strange, sweet, low moaning and sighing came to my ears. I almost
thought I was in a dream. But the canyon, now blood-red, was there in
overwhelming reality, a profound, solemn, gloomy thing, but real. The
wind blew stronger, and then I was to a sad, sweet song, which lulled
as the wind lulled. I realized at once that the sound was caused by the
wind blowing into the peculiar formations of the cliffs. It changed,
softened, shaded, mellowed, but it was always sad. It rose from low,
tremulous, sweetly quavering sighs, to a sound like the last woeful,
despairing wail of a woman. It was the song of the sea sirens and the
music of the waves; it had the soft sough of the night wind in the
trees, and the haunting moan of lost spirits