in Thoreau’s Journal:

From N. Barrett’s road I look over the Great Meadows. The meadows are the freshest, the greenest green in the landscape, and I do not (at thus hour, at any rate) see any bent grass light. The river is a singularly deep living blue, the bluest blue, such as I rarely observe, and its shore is silvered with white maples, which show the under sides of their leaves, stage upon stage, in leafy towers. Methinks the leaves continue to show their under sides sometime after the wind has done blowing. The southern edge of the meadow is also silvered with (I suppose) the red maple.

Then there is the darker green of the forest, and the reddish, brown-ish, and bluish green of grass-lands and pastures and grain-fields, and the light-blue sky. There are not clouds enough in the sky to attract you to-day.