in Thoreau’s Journal:
Rain. It rains but little this afternoon, though there is no sign of fair weather. It is a lichen day. The pitch pines are very inspiriting to behold. Their green is as much enlivened and freshened as that of the lichens. It suggests a sort of sunlight on them, though not even a patch of clear sky is to be seen to-day. As dry and olive or slate-colored lichens are of a fresh and living green, so the already green pine needles have acquired a far livelier tint, as if they enjoyed this moisture as much as the lichens do. They seem to be lit up more than when the sun falls on them. Their trunks and those of trees generally, not being wet, are very black and the bright lichens on them are so much more remarkable. Apples are thawed now, and are very good. Their juice is the best kind of bottled cider that I know.
They are all good in this state, and your jaws are the cider press. The oak woods a quarter of a mile off appear more uniformly red then ever. The withered leaves, being thoroughly saturated with moisture, are of a livelier color, and they are not only redder for being wet, but thorough the obscurity of the mist one leaf runs into another, and the whole mass makes an impression.