As I come over the hill I hear the wood thrush sing to his evening lay. This is the only bird whose note affects me like music, affects the flow and tenor of my thought, my fancy and imagination. I long for wildness, a nature where I cannot put my foot through, woods where the wood thrush forever sings, where the hours are early morning ones, and there is dew on the grass, and the day is forever unproved, where I might have a fertile unknown for a soil about me.
Henry David Thoreau 22nd June 1853