On a Friday in April

"There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hand.
Sometimes, on a summer morning, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumacs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang 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."
-Henry David Thoreau, in Walden Pond