Sometimes, in a summer morning,

 having taken my accustomed bath, Isat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, 

in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around or 

flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at 

my west window, or the noise of some traveller’s wagon on the distant 

highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons 

like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the 

hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but 

so much over and above my usual allowance. I realized what the Orientals 

mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works. For the most part, I 

minded not how the hours went. The day advanced as if to light some 

work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing 

memorable is accomplished.