July 6.
I walked by night last moon, and saw its disk reflected in Walden Pond, the broken disk, now here, now there, a pure and memorable flame unearthly bright.
I walked by night last moon, and saw its disk reflected in Walden Pond, the broken disk, now here, now there, a pure and memorable flame unearthly bright.
Ah! but that first faint tinge of moonlight . . . a silvery light from the east before day had departed in the west. What an immeasurable interval there is between the first tinge of moonlight which we detect, lighting with mysterious, silvery, poetic light the western slopes, like a paler grass, and the last wave of daylight on the eastern slopes!
It is wonderful how our senses ever span so vast an interval, how from being aware of the one we become aware of the other.
It is now a free, flowing wind, with wet clouds in the sky. Though the sun shines, from time to time I hear a few drops of rain falling on the leaves, but feel none. All serious showers go round me and get out of my way.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 6, 1851
June, the month for grass and flowers, is now past. Now grass is turning to hay, and flowers to fruits. See July 5, 1852 (" It begins to be such weather as when people go a-huckle-berrying.. Nature offers fruits now as well as flowers"); July 7, 1852 ("And now that there is an interregnum in the blossoming of flowers, so is there in the singing of the birds."); July 13, 1860 ("The vernal freshness of June is passed.")
The red-topped grass is in its prime, tingeing the fields with red. See July 13, 1860 ("First we had the June grass reddish-brown, and the sorrel red, of June; now the red-top red of July.)
July 6. Sunday. I walked by night last moon, and saw its disk reflected in Walden Pond, the broken disk, now here, now there, a pure and memorable flame .unearthly bright, like a cucullo 1 of a water-bug. Ah! but that first faint tinge of moonlight on the gap ! (seen some time ago), — a silvery light from the east before day had departed in the west. What an immeasurable interval there is between the first tinge of moonlight which we detect, lighting with mysterious, silvery, poetic light the western slopes, like a paler grass, and the last wave of daylight on the eastern slopes ! It is wonderful how our senses ever span so vast an interval, how from being aware of the one we become aware of the other. And now the night wind blows, . . The red clover heads are now turned black. They no longer impart that rosaceous tinge to the meadows and fertile fields. It is but a short time that their rich bloom lasts. The white is black or withering also. Whiteweed still looks white in the fields. Blue-eyed grass is now rarely seen. The grass in the fields and meadows is not so fresh and fair as it was a fortnight ago. It is dryer and riper and ready for the mowers. Now June is past. June is the month for grass and flowers. Now grass is turning to hay, and flowers to fruits. Already I gather ripe blueberries on the hills. The red-topped grass is in its prime, tingeing the fields with red. It is a free, flowing wind, with wet clouds in the sky, though the sun shines. The distant hills look unusually near in this atmosphere. Acton meeting-houses seen to stand on the side of some hills, Nagog or Nashoba, beyond, as never before. Nobscot looks like a high pasture in the sunlight not far off. From time to time I hear a few drops of rain falling on the leaves, but none is felt and the sun does not cease to shine. All serious showers go round me and get out of my way.
It is now a free, flowing wind, with wet clouds in the sky. Though the sun shines, from time to time I hear a few drops of rain falling on the leaves, but feel none. All serious showers go round me and get out of my way.
June, the month for grass and flowers, is now past.
The red clover heads are now turned black. It is but a short time that their rich bloom lasts. The white clover is black or withering also. Blue-eyed grass is now rarely seen. The grass in the fields is dryer and riper and ready for the mowers.
Now grass is turning to hay, and flowers to fruits. Already I gather ripe blueberries on the hills. The red-topped grass is in its prime, tingeing the fields with red.
Now grass is turning to hay, and flowers to fruits. Already I gather ripe blueberries on the hills. The red-topped grass is in its prime, tingeing the fields with red.
June, the month for grass and flowers, is now past. Now grass is turning to hay, and flowers to fruits. See July 5, 1852 (" It begins to be such weather as when people go a-huckle-berrying.. Nature offers fruits now as well as flowers"); July 7, 1852 ("And now that there is an interregnum in the blossoming of flowers, so is there in the singing of the birds."); July 13, 1860 ("The vernal freshness of June is passed.")
The red-topped grass is in its prime, tingeing the fields with red. See July 13, 1860 ("First we had the June grass reddish-brown, and the sorrel red, of June; now the red-top red of July.)
July 6. Sunday. I walked by night last moon, and saw its disk reflected in Walden Pond, the broken disk, now here, now there, a pure and memorable flame .unearthly bright, like a cucullo 1 of a water-bug. Ah! but that first faint tinge of moonlight on the gap ! (seen some time ago), — a silvery light from the east before day had departed in the west. What an immeasurable interval there is between the first tinge of moonlight which we detect, lighting with mysterious, silvery, poetic light the western slopes, like a paler grass, and the last wave of daylight on the eastern slopes ! It is wonderful how our senses ever span so vast an interval, how from being aware of the one we become aware of the other. And now the night wind blows, . . The red clover heads are now turned black. They no longer impart that rosaceous tinge to the meadows and fertile fields. It is but a short time that their rich bloom lasts. The white is black or withering also. Whiteweed still looks white in the fields. Blue-eyed grass is now rarely seen. The grass in the fields and meadows is not so fresh and fair as it was a fortnight ago. It is dryer and riper and ready for the mowers. Now June is past. June is the month for grass and flowers. Now grass is turning to hay, and flowers to fruits. Already I gather ripe blueberries on the hills. The red-topped grass is in its prime, tingeing the fields with red. It is a free, flowing wind, with wet clouds in the sky, though the sun shines. The distant hills look unusually near in this atmosphere. Acton meeting-houses seen to stand on the side of some hills, Nagog or Nashoba, beyond, as never before. Nobscot looks like a high pasture in the sunlight not far off. From time to time I hear a few drops of rain falling on the leaves, but none is felt and the sun does not cease to shine. All serious showers go round me and get out of my way.
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