Thus it is that even the angels feel, like ourselves, the tender pensiveness of the twilight hour. The great sun seems to veil himself in a glory of amber clouds. The silver stars steal softly forth and light their humbler fires. Mysterious and beautiful shadows of heaven spread over the woods and waters. The echoes of purer loves and of nobler thoughts tremble on the air. And the golden depths of ether draw the soul into delicious reverie, with a beauty that saddens while it exalts, and with a divine intimation that the splendors of its morning hour are concealed but not lost.
But there is no night in heaven. That belongs only to the earth and to hell. For the angels never fall into states of thought and feeling so low, that they could forget or deny the Lord—never!
Lastly, they sleep.
Yes, they sleep and dream. They drop the activities of angelic life; they relax the high tensions of love and thought. They rest. They are blest with visions of transcendent beauty. Their dreams are the voices of higher angels talking above them on celestial themes. In the highest heaven it is the voice of Jehovah walking and speaking with his children in the paradise of the soul. In the deep slumber and unconsciousness of
