We [are] compelled to live so thoroughly and sincerely, reflecting on our steps, reverencing our life, that we never make allowance for the possible changes.
We may waive just so much care of ourselves as we devote of care elsewhere.[485]
IX
1837-1847
(ÆT. 20-30)
[This chapter consists of paragraphs (chiefly undated) taken from a large commonplace-book containing transcripts from earlier journals. Thoreau drew largely from this book in writing the "Week," and to a less extent in writing "Walden." Passages used in these volumes (as far as noted), and those duplicating earlier journal entries already printed in the preceding pages, have been omitted. All the matter in the book appears to have been written before 1847.]
I was born upon thy bank, river,
My blood flows in thy stream,
And thou meanderest forever
At the bottom of my dream.
This great but silent traveller which had been so long moving past my door at three miles an hour,—might I not trust myself under its escort?
In friendship we worship moral beauty without the formality of religion.