Thoreau writes his poem “May Morning” in his journal:
Scorning to live so rare a day by rule.
So mild the air a pleasure ’twas to breathe,
For what seems heaven above was earth beneath.
Soured neighbors chatted by the garden pale,
Nor quarrelled who should drive the needed nail;
The most unsocial made new friends that day,
As when the sun shines husbandmen make hay.
How long I slept I know not, but at last
I felt my consciousness returning fast . . .
