P. M. - Down the Flint's Pond road and return across.
Where the mountains in the horizon are well wooded and the snow does not lodge, they still look blue. All but a narrow segment of the sky in the northwest and southeast being suddenly overcast by a passing kind of snow-squall, though no snow falls, I look into the clear sky with its floating clouds in the northwest as from night into day, now at 4 P.M. The sun sets about five.
Walden and White Ponds are a vitreous greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown.
When I come out on to the causeway, I behold a splendid picture in the west. A single elm by Hayden's stands in relief against the amber and golden, deepening into dusky but soon to be red horizon.
And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 24, 1852
Greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown. See January 27, 1854 ("Walden ice has a green tint close by, but is distinguished by its blueness at a distance") and Walden (" Walden ice, seen near at hand, has a green tint, but at a distance is beautifully blue, and you can easily tell it from the white ice of the river, or the merely greenish ice of some ponds, a quarter of a mile off. Sometimes one of those great cakes slips from the ice-man's sled into the village street, and lies there for a week like a great emerald, an object of interest to all passers.); December 14. 1851 ("There is a beautifully pure greenish-blue sky under the clouds now in the southwest just before sunset."); January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset.") December 11, 1854 ("That peculiar clear vitreous greenish sky in the west, as it were a molten gem.”) December 20, 1854 ("The sky in the eastern horizon has that same greenish-vitreous, gem-like appearance which it has at sundown, . . .") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Western Sky
And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night. See January 23, 1852 ("And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene. "); December 23, 1851 (“I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red, . . . and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.”); see also October 28, 1852 ("That star which accompanies the moon will not be her companion tomorrow.” )
Jan. 24. If thou art a writer , write as if thy time were short , for it is indeed short at the longest . Im prove each occasion when thy soul is reached . Drain the cup of inspiration to its last dregs . Fear no intemperance in that , for the years will come when other wise thou wilt regret opportunities unimproved . The spring will not last forever . These fertile and expand ing seasons of thy life , when the rain reaches thy root , when thy vigor shoots , when thy flower is budding , shall be fewer and farther between . Again I say , Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth . Use and commit to life what you cannot commit to memory .
I hear the tones of my sister's piano below . It reminds me of strains which once I heard more frequently , when , possessed with the inaudible rhythm , I sought my chamber in the cold and commụned with my own thoughts . I feel as if I then received the gifts of the gods with too much indifference . Why did I not cultivate those fields they introduced me to ? Does nothing withstand the inevitable march of time ? Why did I not use my eyes when I stood on Pisgah ? Now I hear those strains but seldom . My rhythmical mood does not endure . I cannot draw from it and return to it in my thought as to a well all the evening or the morning . I cannot dip my pen in it . I cannot work the vein , it is so fine and volatile . Ah , sweet , ineffable reminiscences ! In thy journal let there never be a jest ! To the earnest there is nothing ludicrous .
P. M. Down the Flint's Pond road and return across .
Where the mountains in the horizon are well wooded and the snow does not lodge , they still look blue . All but a narrow segment of the sky in the northwest and southeast being suddenly overcast by a passing kind of snow - squall , though no snow falls ,
I look into the clear sky with its floating clouds in the northwest as from night into day , now at 4 P. M.
The sun sets about five .
Walden and White Ponds are a vitreous greenish blue , like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown.1
Even the dry leaves are gregarious , and they col lect in little heaps in the hollows in the snow , or even on the plane surfaces , driven in flocks by the wind . How like shrinking maidens wrapping their scarfs about them they flutter along ! The oaks are made thus to retain their leaves , that they may play over the snow - crust and add variety to the winter landscape . If you wished to collect leaves , you would only have to make holes in the snow for traps . I see that my tracks are often filled two feet deep with them . They are blown quite across Walden on the wavy snow . Two flitting along together by fits and starts , now one running ahead , then another , remind me of squirrels . Mostly white oak leaves , but the other oaks , i . e . especially red oaks , also . There is a certain refinement or cultivation , even feminineness , suggested by the rounded lobes , the scalloped edge , of the white oak leaf , com pared with the wild , brusque points of the red and black and scarlet and shrub oaks . Now I see a faint bluish tinge in the ruts , but it is warmer and there is a snow - bearing cloud over all . When the cars passed , I being on the pond ( Walden ) , the sun was setting and suffusing the clouds far and near with rosy light . Even the steam from the engine , as its flocks or wreaths rose above the shadow of the woods , became a rosy cloud even fairer than the rest , but it was soon dissipated . I see in the woods the woodman's embers , which have melted a circular hole in the snow , where he warms his coffee at noon . But these days the fire does not melt the snow over a space three feet across .
These woods ! Why do I not feel their being cut more sorely ? Does it not affect me nearly ? The axe can deprive me of much . Concord is sheared of its pride . I am certainly the less attached to my native town in consequence . One , and a main , link is broken . I shall go to Walden less frequently .
When the telegraph harp trembles and wavers , I am most affected , as if it were approaching to articulation . It sports so with my heart - strings . When the harp dies away a little , then I revive for it . It cannot be too faint . I almost envy the Irish , whose shanty in the Cut is so near , that they can hear this music daily standing at their door . How strange to think that a sound so soothing , elevating , educating , telling of Greece and the Muses , might have been heard sweep ing other strings when only the red man ranged these fields ! might , perchance , in course of time have civilized him ! If an Indian brave will not fear torture and aids his enemies to torment him , what become of pity and a hundred other Christian virtues ? The charitable are suddenly without employment .
When I come out on to the causeway , I behold a splendid picture in the west . The damask - lined clouds , like rifts from a coal mine , which sparkle beneath , seen diving into the west . When clouds rise in mid afternoon , you cannot foresee what sunset picture they are preparing for us . A single elm by Hayden's is relieved against the amber and golden border , deepening into dusky but soon to be red , in the horizon .
And now the crescent of the moon is seen , and her attendant star is farther off than last night .
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