Thoreau writes in his journal:
It is a new day; the sun shines . . . As I am going to the woods I think to take some small book in my pocket whose author has been there already, whose pages will be as good as my thoughts, and will eke them out or show me human life still gleaming in the horizon when the woods have shut out the town. But I can find none . . . Cold Spring.—I hear nothing but a phœbe, and the wind, and the rattling of a chaise in the wood . . . Pond.
