in Thoreau’s Journal:

Having gone a quarter of a mile beyond the bridge, where C. calls this his Spanish Brook, I looked back from the top of the hill on the south into this deep dell, Where the white pines stood thick, rising one above another, reflecting the sunlight, so soft and warm by contrast with the snow, as never in summer ,

—for the idea of warmth prevailed over the cold which the snow suggested, though I saw through and between them to a distant snow-clad hill, and also to oaks red with their dry leaves, —and maple limbs were mingled with  the pines, I was on the verge of seeing something, but I did not.  If I had been alone and had had more leisure, I might have seen something to report.