(January 30, 1841)

These particles of snow
Which the early wind shakes down
Are what is stirring.
Or the morning news of the woods
Sometimes it is blown up above the trees,
Like the sand of the desert.

You glance up these paths,
Closely imbowered by bent trees,
As trough the side aisles of a cathedral,
And expect to hear a choir chanting from their depths.

You are never so far in them
As they are far before you.
Their secret is where you are not
And where your feet can never carry you.

Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

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