in Thoreau’s Journal:
It is very still yet in the woods. There are no leaves to rustle, no crickets to chirp, and but few birds to sing.
The pines standing in the ocean of mist, seen from the Cliffs, are trees in every stage of transition from the actual to the imaginary. The near are more distinct, the distant more faint, till at last they are a mere shadowy cone in the distance. What then are these solid pines become? You can command only a circle of thirty or forty rods in diameter. As you advance, the trees gradally come out of the mist and take form before your eyes. You are reminded of your dreams. Life looks like a dream. You are prepared to see visions. And now, just before sundown, the night wind blows up more mist through the valley, thickening the veil which already hung over the trees, and the gloom of night gathers early and rapidly around. Birds lose their way.
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