Friday, January 3, 2014

A winter twilight




It is now fairly winter. We have passed the line, have put the autumn behind us, have forgotten what these withered herbs that rise above the snow here and there are, what flowers they ever bore.

From the Peak, I look over the wintry landscape. First there is the white ground, then the dark, dulled green of evergreens, then the reddish brown of the oaks, which generally retain their leaves, then the gray of maples and other trees, which are bare. Modest Quaker colors seen above the snow.

 

The twilight appears to linger.  The day seems suddenly longer.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 3, 1854


January 3. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, January 3

We have passed the line, have put the autumn behind us. See December 29, 1853 ("The thoughts and associations of summer and autumn are now as completely departed from our minds as the leaves are blown from the trees."); February 1, 1856 ("We have completely forgotten the summer."); February 3, 1852 ("The landscape covered with snow two feet thick, . . .The scenery is wholly arctic. See if a man can think his summer thoughts now."); February 9, 1851 ("We have forgotten summer and autumn."); February 27, 1852 (" We have almost completely forgotten summer.")

Quaker colors. See November 20, 1858 ("The rare wholesome and permanent beauty of withered oak leaves of various hues of brown mottling a hillside, especially seen when the sun is low, — Quaker colors, sober ornaments, beauty that quite satisfies the eye. The richness and variety are the same as before, the colors different, more incorruptible and lasting. ")

The day seems suddenly longer.
See January 20, 1852 ("The days are now sensibly longer, and half past five is as light as five was.");  January 23, 1854 ("The increased length of the days is very observable of late."); January 24, 1852 ("The sun sets about five.”); January 25, 1855 ("For a week or two the days have been sensibly longer, and it is quite light now when the five-o’clock train comes in.);

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 © 2009-2024
tinyurl.com/hdt540103

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