in Thoreau’s Journal:
I do not hear this morning the breathing of chip birds—nor the song of robins. Are the mornings now thus ushered in—are they as spring-like? Has not the year grown old. Methinks we do ourselves at any rate some what tire of the season–& observe less attentively and with less interest the opening of new flowers—and the song of the birds– It is the signs of the fall that affect us most. It is hard to live in the summer content with it.
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