in Thoreau’s Journal:

I find a place on the S side of this rocky hill where the snow is melted & the bare grey rock appears covered with mosses & lichens & beds of oak leaves in the hollows—where I can sit—& an invisible flame & smoke seems to ascend from the leaves & the sun shines with a genial warmth & you can imagine the hum of bees amid flowers—that is a near approach to summer. A summer heat reflected from the dry leaves which reminds you of the sweet fern & those summer afternoons which are longer than a winter day. Though you sit on a mere oasis in the snow….

Man is not the final judge of the humblest work—though it be piling wood.