Wyeth, Berry Bucket, 1968
Above all, we cannot afford not to live in the present. He
is blessed over all mortals who loses no moment of the passing life in
remembering the past. Unless our philosophy hears the cock crow in every
barnyard within our horizon, it is belated. That sound commonly reminds us that
we are growing rusty and antique in our employments and habits of thoughts. His
philosophy comes down to a more recent time than ours. There is something
suggested by it that is a newer testament,—the gospel according to this moment.
He has not fallen astern; he has got up early and kept up early, and to be
where he is is to be in season, in the foremost rank of time. It is an
expression of the health and soundness of Nature, a brag for all the
world,—healthiness as of a spring burst forth, a new fountain of the Muses, to
celebrate this last instant of time. Where he lives no fugitive slave laws are
passed. Who has not betrayed his master many times since last he heard that
note?
The merit of this bird's strain is in its freedom from all
plaintiveness. The singer can easily move us to tears or to laughter, but where
is he who can excite in us a pure morning joy? When, in doleful dumps, breaking
the awful stillness of our wooden sidewalk on a Sunday, or, perchance, a
watcher in the house of mourning, I hear a cockerel crow far or near, I think
to myself, "There is one of us well, at any rate,"—and with a sudden
gush, return to my senses.
- Henry David Thoreau
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