First off, some Cyrilics for you [take heart, a translation follows]:
Уж вечер… облаков померкнули края,
Последний луч зари на башнях умирает;
Последняя в реке блестящая струя
С потухшим небом угасает.
Here’s what I think it should sound like in English:
Already eve, the clouds are darkened on the rim;
On towers the afterglow’s last sunrays languish.
The ultimate bright jet amid a lightless stream,
As skies grow dark, shall also vanish.
Russia’s preeminent 19th century imitative poet (most of his works were inspired by his own translations of German romanticists, but this one isn’t) describes photography’s Golden Hour particularly well.
It is the time when the sun is so low that the light is soft and reddish and the clouds (if present) become especially dramatic. Photographers at such times have an irresitible urge to grab the best gear they happen to have about their person and shoot from the hip: the light is going, almost gone… Profanities abound when it turns out that the exposure compensation dial was stuck at +1 from the previous shoot … and it is too late.
The last light on the tree crown: