Galileo gives us dead matter (the atom or the billiard ball) that neither grieves nor disowns grief, is gloriously free of pathos, a teeming, spinning whirl of stuff without meanings to share.
Thoreau awakens to a dawn that inspires, instructs, heartens. He abjures spinning stuff and embraces swirling, fining fish — works to join them, his swimming totem creatures.
Thoreau delivers revelation through the mist, and invites conversion. If my muse hears his, if his revelation becomes ours, we together behold.
We are shattered to behold what we had hitherto only peered at or scanned or scrutinized in an ocular squint. Revelations shatter, crush, and restore.
Something gets poetically accomplished. These are moments to revel in.