Hollowell farm lied about two miles from the hem, half a mile from the nearest neighbour, and was cut off from the highway by a broad field; its bounding on the rith kept away fogs from frosts in the spring; there was a grey hue and worn down fettle of the house and barn, with run down hedges, which put such a gap between me and the last owner; the hollow and lungwort-healed apple trees, nawed by rabbits: and the eftminding I had of it from my earliest farings up the rith, when the house was hidden behind a thurse grove of red maples. I was yearning to buy it, before the owner came over getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the grazing, and other siferings. I felt reened to take it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders, for I knew all the while that it would yield the most teamful crop of the kind I wanted, if I could only afford to let it alone...
This small lake was well blithened as a neighbor in the midst of a mellow Weedmonth rain-storm, when loft and water are still, but the swail overcast, mid-afternoon was all as blithe as evening, and the wood thrush sang along, and was heard from shore to shore - never smoother than at such a time; and the speckless swail above it being, shallow and darkened by clouds, the water, lightful and edleaming, becomes a lower heaven itself so much the heftier. From a hill-top nearby, where the wood had tidely been cut off, there was a faining outlook southward over the pond, through a wide cleft in the hills marking the shore there, where their withered sides sloping toward each other ettled a stream flowing out waywards through a wooded dale, but stream there was none. That way I looked between and over the near green hills to some further and higher ones in the swailline, dotted with blue. Indeed, by standing on tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the tops of the still bluer and farer highbergs in the northwest, those true-blue mints from heaven, and also sharely from the ham. But in other wards, even from here, I could not see over or beyond the trinding woods. It is well to have some water in your neighborhood, to fain and float the earth. Even the smallest well will show when you look into it, something as neetle as that it keeps butter cool, that the earth layer we stand on is afloat. When I looked over the pond from here toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood I yemed, risen maybe by an eyeblur in their seething dale, like a mint in a bowl, all the earth beyond the pond seemed like a thin stranded sheath and floated even by this small sheet of underlying water, and I was edminded that this on which I dwelt was but dry land.
Every morning was a merryful inlath to make my life of even ordliness, and I may say greeness, with Lady Lund herself. I have been as luttor a worshipper of Dawn as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a bedeful workout, and one of the best things which I did. They say that runes were ingrinded on the bath of King Tching to spell out: "Ednew yourself fully each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." I can understand that. Morning brings back the ar elds. I was all as berined by the bleary hum of a nat making its tangled and yemeless trind through my flat at earliest dawn, when I was sitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any hirler that ever sang of breme. It was Homer's cwide; itself a tale aloft, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something roomful about it; a standing writ, till forbidden, of the everlasting bearing and ellen of the world. The morning, which is the most mindmarking time of the day, is the awakening log. There is least haziness in us; and for one log, at least, many of us awaken which slumbering all the laf of the day and night. Little is to be wenned of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Wittle, but by the gatherbinding nudgings of a theen, are not awakened by our own newly begotten drive and wilnes from within, beglided by the swailswin waverings, rather than bells of bulkbuild, and a loftfilling duft — to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its ovet, and show itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day inholds an earlier, holier, and dawning log than he has yet shanded, has forlorn of life, and is on a nethering and darkening path. After a dealt halting of his faining life, the soul of man and his body, are edlivened each day, and his Wittle looks again what ethel life it can make. All marksome haps, I should say, sweat in morning time and in a morning setting. The Vedas say, "All angets awake with the morning." Leeth and craft, and the fairest and most marking of the deeds of men, are from such a log. All leethers and heleths, like Memnon, are the children of Dawn, and cast their swin at sunrise. To him whose lithe and ellen thought keeps step with the sun, the day is a longlasting morning. It recks not what the timers say or the lunds and arveth of men. Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. Soul andwending is the grind to throw off sleep. Why is it that men give so low tale of their day if they have not been slumbering? They are not such low reckoners. If they had not been overcome with drowsiness, they would have brought off something. The thousands are awake enough for bodily arveth; yet only one in a thousand is awake enough for bearful, witful outcome, only one in a hundred thousand to a leethful and holy life. To be awake is to be alive. I’m yet to have met a man who is fully awake. How could I have looked him in the eyes?