Thoreau writes in his journal:
Nor can all the vanities that so vex the world alter one whit the measure that night has chosen, but ever it must be short particular metre. The human soul is a silent harp in God’s quire, whose strings need only to be swept by the divine breath to chime in,with the harmonies of creation. Every pulse-beat is in exact time with the cricket’s chant, and the tickings of the deathwatch in the wall. Alternate with these if you can.
