in Thoreau’s Journal:
A sharp cutting air— This is a pretty good winter morning however— Not one of the rarer. There are from time to time mornings—both in summer & winter when especially the world seems to begin anew—beyond which memory need not go—for not behind them is yesterday and our past life—when as in the morning of a hoar frost there are visible the effects of a certain creative energy—the world has visibly been recreated in the night—mornings of creation I call them.
In the midst of these marks of a creative energy recently active—while the sun is rising with more than usual splendor I look back—I look back for the era of this creation not into the night but to a dawn for which no man every rose early enough.
A morning which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation—where crystallizations are fresh & unmelted. It is the poet’s hour. Mornings when men are new born—men who have the seeds of life in them. It should be part of my religion to abroad then. This is not one of those mornings—but a clear cold airy winter day.
It is surprising how much room there is in nature, —if man will follow his proper path…