June 11.
The woodland paths are never seen to such advantage as in a moonlight night, opening before me almost against expectation as I walk, as if it were not a path, but an open, winding passage through the bushes, which my feet find.
Hardly two nights are alike. I now descend round the corner of the grain-field, through the pitch pine wood into a lower field, inclosed by woods, and find myself in a colder, damp and misty atmosphere, with much dew on the grass. There is something creative and primal in the cool mist. It is laden with the condensed fragrance of plants. I seem to be nearer to the origin of things.
My spiritual side takes a more distinct form, like my shadow which I see accompanying me with the distinctness of a second person, a certain black companion bordering on the imp. I ask, “Who is this?” whom I see dodging behind me as I am about to sit down on a rock.
No one, to my knowledge, has observed the minute differences in the seasons. A book of the seasons, each page of which should be written in its own season and out-of-doors, or in its own locality wherever it may be.
The woodland paths are never seen to such advantage as in a moonlight night, opening before me almost against expectation as I walk, as if it were not a path, but an open, winding passage through the bushes, which my feet find.
Hardly two nights are alike. I now descend round the corner of the grain-field, through the pitch pine wood into a lower field, inclosed by woods, and find myself in a colder, damp and misty atmosphere, with much dew on the grass. There is something creative and primal in the cool mist. It is laden with the condensed fragrance of plants. I seem to be nearer to the origin of things.
My spiritual side takes a more distinct form, like my shadow which I see accompanying me with the distinctness of a second person, a certain black companion bordering on the imp. I ask, “Who is this?” whom I see dodging behind me as I am about to sit down on a rock.
No one, to my knowledge, has observed the minute differences in the seasons. A book of the seasons, each page of which should be written in its own season and out-of-doors, or in its own locality wherever it may be.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 11, 1851
The woodland paths are never seen to such advantage as in a moonlight night, . . .Hardly two nights are alike. See July 16, 1850 ("Many men walk by day; few walk by night. It is a very different season.); October 26, 1857.(My moods are thus periodical, not two days in my year alike.)
My spiritual side takes a more distinct form. See September 22, 1854 ("By moonlight we are not of the earth earthy, but we are of the earth spiritual.")
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2020
Minute differences of the seasons. See June 19, 1852 ("What subtile differences between one season and another! . . . The seasons admit of infinite degrees in their revolutions."); June 6, 1857 (“Each season is but an infinitesimal point. It no sooner comes than it is gone. It has no duration. It simply gives a tone and hue to my thought. Each annual phenomenon is a reminiscence and prompting.”)
Ah, that life that I have known! How hard it is to remember what is most memorable! We remember how we itched, not how our hearts beat. I can some times recall to mind the quality, the immortality, of my youthful life, but in memory is the only relation to it. The very cows have now left their pastures and are driven home to their yards. I meet no creature in the fields. I hear the night-warbler breaking out as in his dreams, made so from the first for some mysterious reason. Our spiritual side takes a more distinct form, like our shadow which we see accompanying us . . . . By night no flowers, at least no variety of colors. The pinks are no longer pink; they only shine faintly, reflecting more light. Instead of flowers underfoot, stars overhead. My shadow has the distinctness of a second person, a certain black companion bordering on the imp, and I ask, " Who is this ? " which I see dodging behind me as I am about to sit down on a rock. No one, to my knowledge, has observed the minute differences in the seasons. Hardly two nights are alike. The rocks do not feel warm to-night, for the air is warmest; nor does the sand particularly. A book of the seasons, each page of which should be written in its own season and out-of-doors, or in its own locality wherever it may be.
I see my shadow
as a second person who
sits down on this rock.
June 11, 1851
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