in Thoreau’s Journal:
Here, in sight of Wachusett and these rivers and woods, my mind goes singing to itself of other themes than taxation. The rush sparrow sings still unintelligible, as from beyond a depth in me which I have not fathomed, where my future lies folded up. I hear several faint notes, quite outside me, which populate the waste.
This is such fresh and flowing weather, as if the waves of the morning had subsided over the day.
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