Every child begins the world again, to some extent

My arithmetic was     seeds
a few wild apples
 
Such     an interval     between me and 
the recollection I had of it
 
winds passed over      
the outside of the earth every where
I myself     suddenly     neighbor to those 
mist     by degrees     revealed 
 
I looked between     the blue     portion
place and time were     nearer
I was really there     
 
I got up early and bathed in the pond
from within     its fruit
 
who does not believe that each day contains 
an earlier     
 
There is a dawn     in me

It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising

But     I often did better     
 
I sat     and     grew    
 
ticking     forward     the passing day    
 
A man     without     end     
 
setting     the grass     
 
making     the pines and hickories     
 
pushing up through the embankment
 
pushing out     from dry sticks
 
which had seemed to be dead
 
stirring     the glassy surface of the pond
 
my     out-of-the-way     I am
 
unfolding     amid the mountains
 
the     I am     blowing     through
 
woods     without     stopping      
 
whirled along like leaves     run wild
 
Now     more alone than ever
 
my     I am     cockcrowing
 
to fill the pauses         
 
clear and shrill for miles
 
reaching up to your     sills
 
under your windows     breaking through 
 
into your cellar     rubbing      
 
against the shingles for want of room

To increase the warmth of our bodies by addition

Being hard, dark, and transparent     the night    
flying low over the woods 
surrounded me
 
I endeavored to keep a bright fire within
 
I grieved with     a grief     that warmed me     twice—
once while I was 
level with the earth     with the dry leaves,   
and once     while I was a     clear flame
 
I thought that I would just look in the window 
and see     if the house was on fire
 
My whole body began to     go     forgotten, 
a concealed     companion
You can always     see a face     in fire
in the unequal light 

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation

I     spent some     winter evenings
while the snow whirled 
making a path through    
the former occupants of these woods
 
inhabitants
                                                                                    Cato Ingraham        

who gave

                                                                                    Zilpha

the Walden Woods     a voice     that
 
                                                                                    Brister Freeman     and Fenda, his wife,
                                                                                       
                                                                                    the Stratton family

history     set on fire
 
fire that     leaped the brook
 
And     fresh sparks went up
 
and we     heard the crackling
 
and     felt the heat
 
and     concluded to let it burn

                                                                                     Wyman the potter
 
                                                                                     Hugh Quoil

Conclusion

here is not all the world

Direct your eye right inward and you’ll find 
only     Walden ice     
and     stick after stick

we are not where we are

The life in us is like     land
where we     began to     realize all this