an exerpt from Walden
by Henry David Thoreau
The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly-acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air—to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day concerns an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. After a partial cessation of his sensual life, the soul of man, or its organs rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it an make. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere. The Vedas say, ” All intelligences awake with the morning.” Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music and sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning.
I got up early this morning. I have a lot to get done today. I don’t know if I’ve yet felt Thoreau’s Genius, his aspirations from within, or his undulations of celestial music, but I’m trying! I could really use some of those auroral inspirations.
