_Aug. 23, 9-10 A.M._--I sit by the pond, everything quiet, the broad
polish'd surface spread before me--the blue of the heavens and the
white clouds reflected from it--and flitting across, now and then, the
reflection of some flying bird. Last night I was down here with a friend
till after midnight; everything a miracle of splendor--the glory of the
stars, and the completely rounded moon--the passing clouds, silver and
luminous-tawny--now and then masses of vapory illuminated scud--and
silently by my side my dear friend. The shades of the trees, and patches
of moonlight on the grass--the softly blowing breeze, and just-palpable
odor of the neighboring ripening corn--the indolent and spiritual night,
inexpressibly rich, tender, suggestive--something altogether to filter
through one's soul, and nourish and feed and soothe the memory long
afterwards.