Now at least the moon
is full and I walk alone
which is best by night.
As I gather ripe
blackberries I feel as if
autumn is commenced.
Long after starlight
high-pillared clouds of the day
reflect a downy light.
The upland plover
hovers on quivering wing --
alights by steep dive.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 12
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 © 2009-2021
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