Thoreau - journal entry November 7 on home & native soil

Henry David Thoreau 

page 64 entry in 

The heart of Thoreau's Journal

The glorious sandy banks far and near,

caving and sliding -- far sandy slopes,

the forts of the land -- where you see

the naked flesh of New England, her

garment being blown aside like that of 

the priest (Levites?) when they ascend 

to the altar.  Seen through this

November sky, these sands are dear to

me, worth all the gold of November sky,

these sands are dear to me, worth all

the gold of California, suggesting 

Pactolus, while the Saxonville factory-

bell sounds o'er the woods.  That sound

perchance it is that whets my vision.  

The shore suggests the seashore, and

two objects at a distance near the

shore look like seals on a sand-bar.

Dear to me to lie in, this sand;

fit to preserve the bones of a race for

thousands of years to come.

AND this is my home, my native soil;

and I am a New-Englander.  Of thee,

O earth, are my bone and sinew made;

to thee, O sun, am I brother.