Mens vi så en annen vei, med nesen vendt mot den brennende ildkulen på den korte trønderske sommerens lyseblå himmel, sluttet aldri naturen å endres; det går ubønnhørlig mot september og høst nå.

The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit—not a fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic.

Henry David Thoreau: Walden