ere shall be a program for our music let it follow his thought
on an autumn day of Indian summer at Walden--a shadow of a thought at
first, colored by the mist and haze over the pond:

Low anchored cloud,
Fountain head and
Source of rivers...
Dew cloth, dream drapery--
Drifting meadow of the air....

but this is momentary; the beauty of the day moves him to a certain
restlessness--to aspirations more specific--an eagerness for outward
action, but through it all he is conscious that it is not in keeping
with the mood for this "Day." As the mists rise, there comes a clearer
thought more traditional than the first, a meditation more calm. As he
stands on the side of the pleasant hill of pines and hickories in front
of his cabin, he is still disturbed by a restlessness and goes down the
white-pebbled and sandy eastern shore, but it seems not to lead him
where the thought suggests--he climbs the path along the "bolder
northern" and "western shore, with deep bays indented," and now along
the railroad track, "where the Aeolian harp plays." But his eagerness
throws him into the lithe, springy stride of the specie hunter--the
naturalist--he is still aware of a restlessness; with these faster
steps his rhythm is of shorter span--it is still not the tempo of
Nature, it does not bear the mood that the genius of the day calls for,
it is too specific, its nature is too external, the introspection too
buoyant, and he knows now that he must let Nature flow through him and
slowly; he releases his more personal desires to her broader rhythm,
conscious that this blends more and more with the harmony of her
solitude; it tells him that his search for freedom on that day, at
least, lies in his submission to her, for Nature is as relentless as
she is benignant.

He remains in this mood and while outwardly still, he seems to move
with the slow, almost monotonous swaying beat of this autumnal day. He
is more contented with a "homely burden" and is more assured of "the
broad margin to his life; he sits in his sunny doorway ... rapt in
revery ... amidst goldenrod, sandcherry, and sumac ... in undisturbed
solitude." At times the more definite personal strivings for the ideal
freedom, the former more active speculations come over him, as if he
would trace a certain intensity even in his submission. "He grew in
those seasons like corn in the night and they were better than any
works of the hands. They were not time subtracted from his