Thoreau writes his poem “The Freshet” in his journal:
And Nobscot too the valley fills;
Where scarce you’d fill an acorn cup
In summer when the sun was up,
No more you’ll find a cup at all,
But in its place a waterfall.
O that the moon were in conjunction
To the dry land’s extremest unction,
Till every (like and pier were flooded,
And all the land with islands studded,
For once to teach all human kind,
Both those that plow and those that grind,
There is no fixture in the land,
That all unstable is as sand . . .
