Here I am on the Cliffs at half past three or four o'clock. The snow more than a foot deep over all the land. Few if any leave the beaten paths.
A few clouds are floating overhead, downy and dark. Clear sky and bright sun.
I see a long, light-textured cloud stretching from north to south, stretching over half the heavens; and underneath it, in the west, flitting mother-o'-pearl clouds, which change their loose-textured form and melt rapidly away, even while I write.
Before I can complete this sentence, I look up and they are gone, like the steam from the engine in the winter air.
Even a considerable cloud is dissolved and dispersed in a minute or two, and nothing is left but the pure ether. Then another comes by magic, is born out of the pure blue empyrean, with beautiful mother - o' pearl tints, where not a shred of vapor was to be seen before, not enough to stain a glass or polished steel blade .
Before I can complete this sentence, I look up and they are gone, like the steam from the engine in the winter air.
Even a considerable cloud is dissolved and dispersed in a minute or two, and nothing is left but the pure ether. Then another comes by magic, is born out of the pure blue empyrean, with beautiful mother - o' pearl tints, where not a shred of vapor was to be seen before, not enough to stain a glass or polished steel blade .
It grows more light and porous; the blue deeps are seen through it here and there; only a few flocks are left; and now these too have disappeared, and no one knows whither it is gone.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 13, 1852
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 © 2009-2022
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