Walden

John Farmer sat at his door one September evening, after a hard
day's work, his mind still running on his labor more or less.
Having bathed, he sat down to re-create his intellectual man.  It
was a rather cool evening, and some of his neighbors were
apprehending a frost.  He had not attended to the train of his
thoughts long when he heard some one playing on a flute, and that
sound harmonized with his mood.  Still he thought of his work; but
the burden of his thought was, that though this kept running in his
head, and he found himself planning and contriving it against his
will, yet it concerned him very little.  It was no more than the
scurf of his skin, which was constantly shuffled off.  But the notes
of the flute came home to his ears out of a different sphere from
that he worked in, and suggested work for certain faculties which
slumbered in him.  They gently did away with the street, and the
village, and the state in which he lived.  A voice said to him --
Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life, when a
glorious existence is possible for you?  Those same stars twinkle 
over other fields than these