Thoreau writes his poems “Westward-ho!” and “The Echo of the Sabbath Bell” in his journal:
The needles of the pine
All to the west incline.
Dong, sounds the brass in the east,
As if for a civic feast,
But I like that sound the best
Out of the fluttering west.
The steeple rings a knell,
But the fairies’ silvery bell
Is the voice of that gentle folk,
Or else the horizon that spoke.
. . .
