Thoreau writes in his journal:
To the Cliffs.
The small dewdrops rest on the Asclepias pulchra by the roadside like gems, and the flower has lost half its beauty when they are shaken off. What mean these orange-colored toadstools that cumber the ground, and the citron-colored (ice-cream-like) fungus? Is the earth in her monthly courses? The fog has risen up before the sin around the summit of hair Haven . . .
