Nature rarer uses yellow
Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets, --
Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
Like a lover's words

Emily Dickinson

Mist wisped and wreathed through the fen all day, creating other worlds and places out of the everyday until eventually the sun sank itself into a magical mystical pool that seemed a million miles from the purposes of man...