“As it grew later in the afternoon, and we rowed leisurely up the gentle stream, shut in between fragrant and blooming banks, where we had first pitched our tent, and drew nearer to the fields where our lives had passed, we seemed to detect the hues of our native sky in the southwest horizon. The sun was just setting behind the edge of a wooded hill, so rich a sunset as would never have ended but for some reason unknown to men, and to be marked with brighter colors than ordinary in the scroll of time. Though the shadows of the hills were beginning to steal over the stream, the whole river valley undulated with mild light, purer and more memorable than the noon. For so day bids farewell even to solitary vales uninhabited by man. Two herons (Ardea herodias), with their long and slender limbs relieved against the sky, were seen traveling high over our heads,—their lofty and silent flight, as they were wending their way at evening, surely not to alight in any marsh on the earth’s surface, but, perchance, on the other side of our atmosphere, a symbol for the ages to study… The last vestiges of daylight at length disappeared, and as we rowed silently along with our backs toward home through the darkness, only a few stars being visible, we had little to say, but sat absorbed in thought, or in silence listened to the monotonous sound of our oars, a sort of rudimental music, suitable for the ear of Night and the acoustics of her dimly lighted halls; “Pulsae referunt ad sidera valles,” and the valleys echoed the sound of the stars.”

— Henry David Thoreau, from A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, 1849

“时夜将半，四顾寂寥。适有孤鹤，横江东来。翅如车轮，玄裳缟衣，戛然长鸣，掠予舟而西也。须臾客去，予亦就睡。梦一道士，羽衣蹁跹，过临皋之下，揖予而言曰：‘赤壁之游乐乎？’问其姓名，俯而不答。‘呜呼噫嘻！我知之矣！畴昔之夜，飞鸣而过我者非子也耶？’道士顾笑，予亦惊寤。开户视之，不见其处。”

——苏轼，《后赤壁赋》节选，1082

 “天色渐晚，我们行驶在和缓的溪流上，悠闲地溯河而上。小河两岸鲜花怒放，芳香四溢，我们的第一个宿营地就是在这个河岸上。小船慢慢地驶近我们生活过的田野，我们似乎看到了西南方地平线上的家乡上空的云彩。太阳刚刚躲进一座树木繁茂的小山后面，夕阳的余晖如此绚烂，仿佛它永远都将放射光芒，除非有不为人知的原因它才会消亡，而且在时间的卷轴上，它将被标上更加艳丽的色彩。整个河面渐渐被群山的阴影所覆盖，在柔和的光线下泛起涟漪，这柔光比月色还要恬静宜人。白昼似乎在向孤寂的杳无人迹的山谷道别。两只苍鹭张开长而纤细的翅膀，高高地飞过我们头顶上空——它们高傲而无声地飞翔着，像是要在天黑之前赶路回家：无疑，它们不会落在大地上的沼泽中，但或许，会落在天空的另一边。它们都将是人们世代研究的象征之物。……最后一道日光的痕迹最终消失了，天空中几颗稀落的星星依稀可见，我们在夜幕中朝着家乡的方向静静地划船，沉默不语，或是沉浸在思索之中，或是静静地听着单调的划桨声——这是一种浅显的音乐，只与黑夜的耳朵和她灯光昏暗的大厅中的声音相配。‘被敲击的山谷，回响传至群星’(Pulsae referunt ad sidera valles)， 山谷的回声还在星空中飘荡。”

—— 亨利·戴维·梭罗，《康科德与梅里马克河上一周》节选，1849

“By then it was toward midnight. All around us it was deathly silent. Suddenly, a solitary crane came toward us across the river from the east. Its wings traced cartwheels in the air. It seemed dressed in a white blanket over a black gown, and let out a long piercing cry—“jia!”—as it swept past our boat and headed west. A short while later the guests left, and I fell asleep. I dreamed of two Daoists clothed in feathers, fluttering about. As they passed by Lingao, they greeted me and asked, “Did you enjoy your journey to Red Cliff?” When I asked their names, they looked down without answering. “Oh, now I understand! Last night, was it not you who called out as you flew by?” The Daoists looked back at me and laughed. And then I suddenly awakened. I opened the door and looked outside, but saw no trace of them.”

                                                                          — Su Shi, from Latter Ode to Red Cliff, 1082