in Thoreau’s Journal:

As I go up the hill surrounded by its shadow while the sun is setting I am soothed by the delicious stillness of the evening. Save that on the hills the wind blows. 

I was surprised by the sound of my own voice––  It is an atmosphere burdensome with thought–– For the first time for a month at least I am reminded that thought is possible. The din of trivialness is silenced. I float over or through the deeps of silence. It is the first silence I have heard for a month–– My life had been a River Platte tinkling over its sands but useless for all great navigations––but now it suddenly became a fathomless ocean. It shelved off to unimagined depths.