On evenings like this I'm reminded of the last chapter of a novel (published in 1910) by H.G. Wells, The History of Mr. Polly, which describes an evening by a nameless river in southern England:
... It was one of those evenings, serenely luminous, amply and atmospherically still, when the river bend was at its best. A swan floated against the dark green masses of the further bank, the stream flowed broad and shining to its destiny, with scarce a ripple––except where the reeds came out from the headland––the three poplars rose clear and harmonious against a sky of green and yellow.
"...what have we done," said Mr. Polly, "to get an evening like this? ... Sometimes I think I live for sunsets."
They ... sat on in the warm twilight until at last they could scarcely distinguish each other's faces. They were not so much thinking as lost in a smooth, still quiet of the mind. A bat flitted by ...