The wind rises more and more. The river and the pond are blacker than the threatening cloud in the south. The thunder mutters in the distance. The surface of the water is slightly rippled. Where the pads grow is a light green border. The woods roar. Small white clouds are hurrying across the dark-blue ground of the storm, which rests on all the woods of the south horizon. But still no rain now for some hours, as if the clouds are dissipated as fast as they reach this atmosphere.
Beyond the bridge there is a goldenrod partially blossomed. First came the St. John's-wort and now the goldenrod to admonish us. I hear, too, a cricket amid these stones under the blackberry vines, singing as in the fall. Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn. Where is the summer then?
Methinks my seasons revolve more slowly than those of nature; I am differently timed. Here I am thirty-four years old, and yet my life is almost wholly unexpanded. How much is in the germ! I may say I am unborn. If my curve is large, why bend it to a smaller circle? If life is a waiting, so be it. I am contented.
Already the goldenrod is budded, but I can make no haste for that. Let a man step to the music which he hears, however measured.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 19, 1851
Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn. Where is the summer then? See July 15, 1854 (“We seem to be passing, or to have passed, a dividing line between spring and autumn, and begin to descend the long slope toward winter. ”); July 16, 1851 ("St.John's-wort, one of the first of yellow flowers, begins to shine along the roadside."); December 7, 1856 ("The winters come now as fast as snowflakes. It was summer, and now again it is winter").
This rapid revolution of nature, even of nature in me, why should it hurry me? Let a man step to the music which he hears, however measured. Is it important that I should mature as soon as an apple tree? aye, as soon as an oak May not my life in nature, in proportion as it is supernatural, be only the spring and infantile portion of my spirit's life? Shall I turn my spring to summer? Compare Walden ("Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away. It is not important that he should mature as soon as an apple tree or an oak. Shall he turn his spring into summer?) See also September 24, 1859 ("Great works of art have endless leisure for a background, as the universe has space. Time stands still while they are created. The artist cannot be in [a] hurry. The earth moves round the sun with inconceivable rapidity, and yet the surface of the lake is not ruffled by it. ")
July 19.
Here I am thirty-four years old, and yet my life is almost wholly unexpanded.
How much is in the germ! There is such an interval between my ideal and the actual in many instances that I may say I am unborn.
There is the instinct for society, but no society.
Life is not long enough for one success.
Within another thirty-four years that miracle can hardly take place.
Methinks my seasons revolve more slowly than those of nature; I am differently timed.
I am contented.
This rapid revolution of nature, even of nature in me, why should it hurry me? Let a man step to the music which he hears, however measured.
Is it important that I should mature as soon as an apple tree? aye, as soon as an oak May not my life in nature, in proportion as it is supernatural, be only the spring and infantile portion of my spirit's life? Shall I turn my spring to summer? May I not sacrifice a hasty and petty completeness here to entireness there If my curve is large, why bend it to a smaller circle? My spirit 's unfolding observes not the pace of nature.
The society which I was made for is not here.
Shall I , then , substitute for the anticipation of that this poor reality ? I would ( rather ) have the unmixed expectation of that than this reality.
If life is a waiting , so be it.
I will not be shipwrecked on a vain reality.
What were any reality which I can substitute ? Shall I with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over myself , though when it is done I shall be sure to gaze still on the true ethereal heaven far above , as if the former were not , — that still distant sky o ' er arching that blue expressive eye of heaven ? 1 I am enamored of the blue-eyed arch of heaven.
I did not make this demand for a more thorough sympathy.
This is not my idiosyncrasy or disease.
He that made the demand will answer the demand.
My blood flows as slowly as the waves of my native Musketaquid; yet they reach the ocean sooner, per chance, than those of the Nashua.
Already the goldenrod is budded, but I can make no haste for that.
2 P. M.
— The weather is warm and dry, and many leaves curl.
There is a threatening cloud in the south west.
The farmers dare not spread their hay.
It remains cocked in the fields.
As you walk in the woods nowadays, the flies striking against your hat sound like rain-drops.
The stump or root fences on the Corner road remind me of fossil remains of mastodons, etc., exhumed and bleached in sun and rain.
To-day I met with the first orange flower of autumn.
What means this doubly torrid, this Bengal, tint? Yellow took sun enough, but this is the fruit of a dog-day sun. The year has but just produced it.
Here is the Canada thistle in bloom, visited by butterflies and bees.
The butterflies have swarmed within these few days, especially about the milkweeds.
The swamp-pink still fills the air with its perfume in swamps and by the cause ways, though it is far gone.
The wild rose still scatters its petals over the leaves of neighboring plants.
The wild morning - glory or bindweed , with its delicate red and white blossoms.
I remember it ever as a goblet full of purest morning air and sparkling with dew, showing the dew-point, winding round itself for want of other support. It grows by the Hubbard Bridge causeway, near the angelica.
The cherry-birds are making their seringo sound as they flit past.
They soon find out the locality of the cherry trees.
And beyond the bridge there is a goldenrod partially blossomed.
Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn.
Where is the summer then?
First came the St. John 's-wort and now the goldenrod to admonish us.
I hear, too, a cricket amid these stones under the blackberry vines, singing as in the fall.
Ripe blackberries are multiplying.
I see the red- spotted berries of the small Solomon ' s seal in my path.
I notice, in the decayed end of an oak post, that the silver grain is not decayed, but remains sound in thin flakes, alternating with the decayed portions and giving the whole a honeycombed look. Such an object supramundane, as even a swallow may descend to light on, a dry mullein stalk for instance.
I see that hens, too, follow the cows feeding near the house, like the cow troopial, and for the same object. They cannot so well scare up insects for themselves. This is the dog the cowbird uses to start up its insect game.
I see yellow butterflies in pairs, pursuing each other a rod or two into the air, and now, as he had bethought himself of the danger of being devoured by a passing bird, he descends with a zigzag flight to the earth, and the other follows.
The black huckleberries are now so thick among the green ones that they no longer incur suspicion of being worm-eaten.
When formerly I was looking about to see what I could do for a living, some sad experience in conforming to the wishes of friends being fresh in my mind to tax my ingenuity, I thought often and seriously of picking huckleberries; that surely I could do, and its small profits might suffice, so little capital it required, so little distraction from my wonted thoughts, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintances went unhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I thought of this occupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick the berries which came in my way, which I might carelessly dispose of; so to keep the flocks of King Admetus. My greatest skill has been to want but little. I also dreamed that I might gather the wild herbs, or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved to be reminded of the woods and so find my living got. But I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.
The wind rises more and more.
The river and the pond are blacker than the threatening cloud in the south.
The thunder mutters in the distance.
The surface of the water is slightly rippled.
Where the pads grow is a light green border.
The woods roar.
I hear, too, a cricket amid these stones under the blackberry vines, singing as in the fall.
Ripe blackberries are multiplying.
I see the red- spotted berries of the small Solomon ' s seal in my path.
I notice, in the decayed end of an oak post, that the silver grain is not decayed, but remains sound in thin flakes, alternating with the decayed portions and giving the whole a honeycombed look. Such an object supramundane, as even a swallow may descend to light on, a dry mullein stalk for instance.
I see that hens, too, follow the cows feeding near the house, like the cow troopial, and for the same object. They cannot so well scare up insects for themselves. This is the dog the cowbird uses to start up its insect game.
I see yellow butterflies in pairs, pursuing each other a rod or two into the air, and now, as he had bethought himself of the danger of being devoured by a passing bird, he descends with a zigzag flight to the earth, and the other follows.
The black huckleberries are now so thick among the green ones that they no longer incur suspicion of being worm-eaten.
When formerly I was looking about to see what I could do for a living, some sad experience in conforming to the wishes of friends being fresh in my mind to tax my ingenuity, I thought often and seriously of picking huckleberries; that surely I could do, and its small profits might suffice, so little capital it required, so little distraction from my wonted thoughts, I foolishly thought. While my acquaintances went unhesitatingly into trade or the professions, I thought of this occupation as most like theirs; ranging the hills all summer to pick the berries which came in my way, which I might carelessly dispose of; so to keep the flocks of King Admetus. My greatest skill has been to want but little. I also dreamed that I might gather the wild herbs, or carry evergreens to such villagers as loved to be reminded of the woods and so find my living got. But I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.
The wind rises more and more.
The river and the pond are blacker than the threatening cloud in the south.
The thunder mutters in the distance.
The surface of the water is slightly rippled.
Where the pads grow is a light green border.
The woods roar.
Small white clouds are hurrying across the dark-blue ground of the storm, which rests on all the woods of the south horizon.
But still no rain now for some hours, as if the clouds were dissipated as fast as they reached this atmosphere.
The barberry's fruit hangs yellowish-green.
What pretty covers the thick bush makes, so large and wide and drooping ! The Fringilla juncorum sings still, in spite of the coming tempest, which, perchance only threatens.
The woodchuck is a good native of the soil.
The distant hillside and the grain-fields and pastures are spotted yellow or white with his recent burrows , and the small mounds remain for many years.
Here where the clover has lately been cut, see what a yellow mound is brought to light ! Heavily hangs the common yellow lily (Lilium Canadense) in the meadows.
In the thick alder copses by the causeway - side I find the Lysimachia hybrida.
Here is the Lactuca sanguinea with its runcinate leaves, tall stem and pale-crimson ray.
And that green stemmed one higher than my head, resembling the last in its leaves, is perchance the “tall lettuce," or fireweed.
Can that my fine white - flowered meadow-plant with the leaf be a thalictrum ?
But still no rain now for some hours, as if the clouds were dissipated as fast as they reached this atmosphere.
The barberry's fruit hangs yellowish-green.
What pretty covers the thick bush makes, so large and wide and drooping ! The Fringilla juncorum sings still, in spite of the coming tempest, which, perchance only threatens.
The woodchuck is a good native of the soil.
The distant hillside and the grain-fields and pastures are spotted yellow or white with his recent burrows , and the small mounds remain for many years.
Here where the clover has lately been cut, see what a yellow mound is brought to light ! Heavily hangs the common yellow lily (Lilium Canadense) in the meadows.
In the thick alder copses by the causeway - side I find the Lysimachia hybrida.
Here is the Lactuca sanguinea with its runcinate leaves, tall stem and pale-crimson ray.
And that green stemmed one higher than my head, resembling the last in its leaves, is perchance the “tall lettuce," or fireweed.
Can that my fine white - flowered meadow-plant with the leaf be a thalictrum ?
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