In the morning the river and adjacent country were covered with a dense fog,
through which the smoke of our fire curled up like a still subtler mist; but before
we had rowed many rods, the sun arose and the fog rapidly dispersed, leaving
a slight stream only to curl along the surface of the water. It was a quiet Sunday
morning, with more of the auroral rosy and white than the yellow light in it,
as if it dated earlier than the fall of man, and still preserved a heathenish integrity.
source: Henry David Thoreau, “A Week On The Concord and Merrimack”