He sees all things ripen and fall.

He can wait.

He knows the end.

It is always the same.
He brings the fruit out of the peach-flower, and rounds it and touches it into ruddiest rose and softest gold: but the sun knows well that the peach must drop--whether into the basket to be eaten by kings, or on to the turf to be eaten by ants.

What matter which very much after all?
The Sun is not a cynic; he is only wise because he is Life and he is Death, the creator and the corrupter of all things..