Thoreau writes in his journal:
I have carried an apple in my pocket to-night—a sopsivine they call it—till, now that I take my handkerchief out, it has got so fine a fragrance that it really seems like a friendly trick of some pleasant dæmon to entertain me with. It is redolent of sweet scented orchards of innocent teeming harvests I realize the existence of a goddess Pomona, and that the gods have really intended that men should feed divinely, like themselves, on their own nectar and ambrosia. They have so painted this fruit, and freighted it with such a fragrance, that it satisfies much more than an animal appetite.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
When I play my flute to-night, earnest as if to leap the bounds [of] that narrow fold where human life is penned, and range the surrounding plain, I hear echo from a neighboring wood a stolen pleasure, occasionally not rightfully heard, much more for other ears than ours, for ‘t is the reverse of sound. It is not our own melody that comes back to us, but an amended strain. And I would only hear myself as I would hear my echo, corrected and repronounced for me. It is as when my friend reads my verse.
