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1I was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a half south of the village of Concord and somewhat higher
2than it, in the midst of an extensive wood between that town and Lincoln, and about two miles south of that our only
3field known to fame, Concord Battle Ground; but I was so low in the woods that the opposite shore, half a mile off, like
4the rest, covered with wood, was my most distant horizon. For the first week, whenever I looked out on the pond it
5impressed me like a tarn high up on the side of a mountain, its bottom far above the surface of other lakes, and, as the
6sun arose, I saw it throwing off its nightly clothing of mist, and here and there, by degrees, its soft ripples or its
7smooth reflecting surface was revealed, while the mists, like ghosts, were stealthily withdrawing in every direction
8into the woods, as at the breaking up of some nocturnal conventicle. The very dew seemed to hang upon the trees later
9into the day than usual, as on the sides of mountains. This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals
10of a gentle rain storm in August, when, both air and water being perfectly still, but the sky overcast, mid-afternoon
11had all the serenity of evening, and the wood-thrush sang around, and was heard from shore to shore. A lake like this is
12never smoother than at such a time; and the clear portion of the air above it being shallow and darkened by clouds, the
13water, full of light and reflections, becomes a lower heaven itself so much the more important. From a hill top near by,
14where the wood had been recently cut off, there was a pleasing vista southward across the pond, through a wide
15indentation in the hills which form the shore there, where their opposite sides sloping toward each other suggested a
16stream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley, but stream there was none. That way I looked between and
17over the near green hills to some distant and higher ones in the horizon, tinged with blue. Indeed, by standing on
18tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer and more distant mountain ranges in the
19north-west, those true-blue coins from heaven's own mint, and also of some portion of the village. But in other
20directions, even from this point, I could not see over or beyond the woods which surrounded me. It is well to have some
21water in your neighborhood, to give buoyancy to and float the earth. One value even of the smallest well is, that when
22you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular. This is as important as that it keeps butter cool.
23When I looked across the pond from this peak toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood I distinguished elevated
24perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley, like a coin in a basin, all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a thin
25crust insulated and floated even by this small sheet of interverting water, and I was reminded that this on which I
26dwelt was but dry land. Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel crowded or confined in
27the least. There was pasture enough for my imagination. The low shrub-oak plateau to which the opposite shore arose,
28stretched away toward the prairies of the West and the steppes of Tartary, affording ample room for all the roving
29families of men. "There are none happy in the world but beings who enjoy freely a vast horizon,"--said Damodara, when
30his herds required new and larger pastures. Both place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those parts of the
31universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me. Where I lived was as far off as many a region viewed
32nightly by astronomers. We are wont to imagine rare and delectable places in some remote and more celestial corner of
33the system, behind the constellation of Cassiopeia's Chair, far from noise and disturbance. I discovered that my house
34actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe. If it were worth the
35while to settle in those parts near to the Pleiades or the Hyades, to Aldebaran or Altair, then I was really there, or
36at an equal remoteness from the life which I had left behind, dwindled and twinkling with as fine a ray to my nearest
37neighbor, and to be seen only in moonless nights by him. Such was that part of creation where I had squatted;-- "There
38was a shepherd that did live, And held his thoughts as high As were the mounts whereon his flocks Did hourly feed him
39by." What should we think of the shepherd's life if his flocks always wandered to higher pastures than his thoughts?
40Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature
41herself. I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a
42religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of
43king Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." I can
44understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much affected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its
45invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when I was sitting with door and windows open, as
46I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air,
47singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden,
48of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the
49awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers
50all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not
51awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly-acquired
52force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a
53fragrance filling the air--to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove
54itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred,
55and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. After
56a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his
57Genius tries again what noble life it can make. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a
58morning atmosphere. The Vedas say, "All intelligences awake with the morning." Poetry and art, and the fairest and most
59memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora,
60and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a
61perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and
62there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Why is it that men give so poor an account of
63their day if they have not been slumbering? They are not such poor calculators. If they had not been overcome with
64drowsiness, they would have performed something. The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a
65million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life.
66To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?
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