We love to think in winter, as we walk over the snowy pastures, of those happy dreamers that lie under the sod, of dormice and all that race of dormant creatures, which have such a superfluity of life enveloped in thick folds of fur, impervious to cold. Alas, the poet too is in one sense a sort of dormouse gone into winter quarters of deep and serene thoughts, insensible to surrounding circumstances; his words are the relation of his oldest and finest memory, a wisdom drawn from the remotest experience. Other men lead a starved existence, meanwhile, like hawks, that would fain keep on the wing, and trust to pick up a sparrow now and then. - Henry David Thoreau
1 comment:
Oh how I wish we had proper snow down here in the South of England...... we do sometimes get a heavy fall about once every 7 or so years, I mean enough to go to Butser Hill with Sledges.... but we usually just get a couple of days with snow, and last year we only got one evening where it laid, so we went for a walk at gone 11 at night cos we knew it would be gone by morning.......
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