From Thoreau’s Journal, #15

The cuckoo reminds me of some silence.
Sun is glowing in the fog.
The snow is nearly all gone,
And now another friendship ended.

My nature overflows with secrets
I cannot confess to anyone.
I live under an awful obligation
To be only what I seem to be.

I am the nature of buried stone -
It takes the summer sun to warm it.
Give me to walk in the dogwood swamp
Just above the red house, beautiful as Satan.

Going now to see the sun set:
Will it go in clouds or a clear blue sky?
Winter breaking up within me ...
There is a season for everything 

- from various journal entries

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