The speaker begins with a memory of watching the sunrise — not all at once, but slowly, like a ribbon unfurling. The whole world seems to wake up in a playful, almost childlike way: church steeples shimmer in purple light, the morning news races around like squirrels, hills take off their nightcaps, and birds start singing. There’s a delighted, whispered realization: “That must have been the Sun!” You can feel the speaker’s quiet awe and satisfaction at putting the clues together.
Then the poem turns. Sunset is a different story — the speaker admits she doesn’t know how it happens. She can only offer an image: a soft purple ladder or gate where little yellow children climb over into evening, gently guided by a gray-clad shepherd. The mood shifts from bright confidence to hushed, wondering acceptance. The sunrise is something you can trace and name; the sunset feels like a tender secret you simply watch as it fades.