As I sauntered along the pavement earlier this morn, an
implicit conviviality entered my soul from the creation around me. The sun tacitly
bid me welcome, spreading the warmth of its auroral rays across the valley. The
unadorned trees, though bereft of their natural verdure, seemed to gesture in satisfied
salutation as if prompted by some ineffable joy. I would fain reply, if I knew
the language of trees. A light mist meandered atop the surrounding hills,
adding an almost ethereal sense to the land. And in this, the dawn of day, with
creation unabated in its obeisance to the divine King, I found myself inadequately
equipped to pay homage with such pristine alacrity as was all around. For I am daunted
by the task of explicating to all within my sphere the awe-inspiring attributes
of the only immortal being whose residual print remains peculiarly present
within my despoiled design. As a philosopher, I would happily begin “making plain
the image engraven in men’s bodies, the God of whom they are defaced and
leaning monuments” if only the engraving were slightly
clearer. (Thoreau, Walden)
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