Reflection on Solitude, Walden by Henry David Thoreau

　(It is 15:10.) It is drizzling. The rippling lotus ponds are moving upward; so is the cloud. Raindrops are still but fall into the water and into the red bricks beside. The ponds are not alive; there is no lotus above the water. Lotus is for summer. (“Last time we talk about this poem…”) The world has no reason to rise anymore. (The rain has stopped. “Then, ‘but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.’”) The world starts to rise again; this is a snowy evening. (It is 15:37.) Yes, yes, it is weird; the little horse must think it queer. Alone in the woods, shall I stop or not? Rain falls; snow falls; they always fall. Do they? I want to be with them, experience the sky moving away, and sink into the ground. Snowflakes and raindrops never exist solitarily. (It is 16:34. When is the class dismissing?) When the summer comes, lotuses bloom as a bunch out of the mud, standing still, accompanying each other, but I can only imagine. I will not be here the coming summer. (“The Sea of Faith was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore…”) The water that leaves the cloud goes into the ocean and back to the sky; we humans believe that. However, I am not coming back. (It is 16:43, and the class ends at 18:00.)