in Thoreau’s Journal:
Where is my home? It is indistinct as an old cellar-hole now, a faint indentation merely in a farmer’s field, which he has plowed into, rounding off its edges, years ago, and I sit by the old site on the stump of an oak which once grew there.
Such is nature where we have lived.
Thick birch groves stand here and there,
dark brown now, with white lines here and there.