So, I was haunted.
Could I become man’s benefactor?
Lying in my attic, on my bed of corn shocks, I confronted log walls—- strong log walls.
August 9, 1863
On my circuit rides, when weather favored, when there was enough time, I stopped at a grove, dismounted, walked to a tree deep in the grove, a tree I had blazed when county surveying; I walked on to the second blaze that marked a green pool. It was a small shallow pool rimmed with short grass. Dragonflies came there. Crickets lived near there. Standing there, sitting there, I found meaning, a meaning I still respect.
Tell me, ye winged winds
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?