A great bittern, standing perfectly still.

American Bittern

Botaurus lentiginosus

August 31.

First frost in our garden. 

Passed in boat within fifteen feet of a great bittern, standing perfectly still in the water by the riverside, with the point of its bill directly up, as if it knew that from the color of its throat, etc., it was much less likely to be detected in that position, near weeds.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 31, 1855

A great bittern, standing perfectly still in the water by the riverside, with the point of its bill directly up. See August 13, 1852 ("Saw the head and neck of a great bittern projecting above the meadow-grass, exactly like the point of a stump, only I knew there could be no stump there.") See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, American Bittern (the Stake-Diver)

A Book of the Seasons: August 31.

August 31.

The pond so smooth and

full of reflections after

a dark breezy day.

August 31, 1852

Now after the rain

bright fresh green on fields and trees.

Sense of summer past.

August 31, 1852

Is not the haze a 

sort of smoke, the sun parching 

and burning the earth?

August 31, 1854

The lost lower leaves 

of birches now cover and 

yellow the ground. 

August 31, 1858

Rush of cooler air

and a hurried flight of birds –

dark-blue thunder-cloud.

August 31, 1859

August 31, 2013

                                                                                             Next Month >>>>>

Last Month

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 © 2009-2019

A Book of the Seasons: August 30

August 30.

Each humblest flower
marks some phase of human life
as the globe goes round.

When the flower’s fall
is symbol of my own change
the flower appears.
August 30, 1851

So many asters,
such bewildering beauty
and variety!
August 30, 1853

Clearness of the air
makes it delicious to gaze
any direction.
August 30, 1854

Sarothra in prime 

has the fragrance of lemon -- 

stinging, like a bee. 

August 30, 1856

Sarothra bruised 

has the fragrance of lemon --  

stinging, like a bee. 

August 30, 1856

It is vain to dream
of a wildness distant from
ourselves. There is none.
August 30, 1856

A place so wild that

huckleberries grew hairy 

and  inedible. 

August 30, 1856

The rocks and trees are

personalities to me.

We reverence the stones.

August 30, 1856

Butterflies or bees

upon almost every one,

now that flowers rare.

August 30, 1859

August 30, 2013

The sarothra is now apparently in prime on the Great Fields, and comes near being open now, at 3 p. m. Bruised, it has the fragrance of sorrel and lemon, rather pungent or stinging, like a bee. August 30, 1856

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 © 2009-2017

A Book of the Seasons: August 29.

August 29.

This haziness seems

to confine and concentrate

the August sunlight.

August 29, 1851

Rain-storm in the night.

The first leaves begin to fall,

blown off by the wind.

August 29, 1852

How sudden a change

this clear, cool autumnal air

in which all things shine.

I love to sit on

the sunny side of the wall

in the withered grass.

Now that air is cool

genial nature provides

the warmth of the sun.

August 29, 1854

. I hear in the street

 this morning a goldfinch sing 

part of a sweet strain. 

August 29, 1859

August 29, 2019

The first leaves begin to fall; a few yellow ones lie in the road this morning, loosened by the rain and blown off by the wind. The ground in orchards is covered with windfalls; imperfect fruits now fall. August 29, 1852

It is so cool that we are inclined to stand round the kitchen fire.  August 29, 1854

It is so cool a morning that for the first time I move into the entry to sit in the sun. August 29, 1859

But in this cooler weather I feel as if the fruit of my summer were hardening and maturing a little, acquiring color and flavor like the corn and other fruits in the field. . . . Man, too, ripens with the grapes and apples. August 29, 1859

It is a great pleasure to walk in this clearer atmosphere, though cooler. How great a change, and how sudden, from that sultry and remarkably hazy atmosphere to this clear, cool autumnal one, in which all things shine, and distance is restored to us! August 29, 1854

I enjoy the warmth of the sun now that the air is cool, and Nature seems really more genial.  August 29, 1854

I hear this morning one eat it potter from a golden robin. They are now rarely seen.  August 29, 1858

My mistress is at a more respectful distance, for, by the coolness of the air, I am more continent in my thought and held aloof from her, while by the genial warmth of the sun I am more than ever attracted to her. August 29, 1854


 August 29.

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 © 2009-2015

A Book of the Seasons: August 28.

August 28.

The acorns show now 

on the shrub oaks. A cool, white,

autumnal evening.
August 28, 1853

along the river

now bright blue china-colored

berries show themselves

August 28, 1856

The poet is a man

who lives at last

by watching his moods.

August 28, 1851

Bright china-colored

blue berries now show themselves

along the river.

August 28, 1856

A cool white

autumnal

evening.

August 28, 1853

A great deal of light

reflected through clearer air

a vein of coolness.

August 28, 1854

A clear flashing air

 shorn fields bright yellow and cool  –

bobolinks, goldfinch.

August 28, 1859

The sky overcast.
A sudden vivid green blaze
of reflected light.
August 28, 1860

August 28, 2014

A great poet will write for his peers alone, and indite no line to an inferior. He will 275remember only that he saw truth and beauty from his position, and calmly expect the time when a vision as broad shall overlook the same field as freely.

. . .

The art which only gilds the surface and demands merely a superficial polish, without reaching to the core, is but varnish and filigree. But the work of genius is rough-hewn from the first, because it anticipates the lapse of time and has an ingrained polish, which still appears when fragments are broken off, an essential quality of its substance. 

Its beauty is its strength. It breaks with a lustre, and splits in cubes and diamonds. Like the diamond, it has only to be cut to be polished, and its surface is a window to its interior splendors.

True verses are not counted on the poet's fingers, but on his heart-strings.

My life hath been the poem I would have writ,

But I could not both live and live to utter it.

August 28, 1841

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 © 2009-2020

A Book of the Seasons: August 27.

August 27.
Leaves of young maples
in water about the pond
are now quite scarlet.
August 27, 1852

Cooler nights of late,
the heat of the sun by day
local, palpable.
August 27, 1860

August 27, 2016

The nights have been cooler of late, but the heat of the sun by day has been more local and palpable. August 27, 1860

The leaves of some young maples in the water about the pond are now quite scarlet, running into dark purple-red. August 27, 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 © 2009-2015

A Book of the Seasons: August 26.

August 26.

What is a New England landscape
this sunny August day? 

A weather-painted 

house and barn, 

with an orchard

by its side,

in midst of 

a sandy field 

surrounded by 

green woods,
with a small

blue lake

on one side.  . . . 

The color of the weather-painted house 

and that of the lake and sky.
August 26, 1856

The whole country is

a sea-shore; the wind is the

surf that breaks on it.

August 26, 1851

All bushes resound.

I wade up to my ears in the

alder locust song.

August 26, 1860

I am surprised by

sun-sparkles on the river,

a long time not seen.

August 26, 1859

What is a New England landscape?

A weather-painted 

house and barn with an orchard

by its side in midst

of a sandy field 

surrounded by green woods with

a small blue lake on

one side --  Sympathy

between the color of the

weather-painted house 

and that of the lake and sky

this sunny August day.

August 26, 1856

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 © 2009-2019

One hundred and fifty cowbirds.

August 25.

In Dennis’s field this side the river, I count about one hundred and fifty cowbirds about eight cows, running before their noses and in odd positions, awkwardly walking with a straddle, often their heads down and tails up a long time at once, occasionally flying to keep up with a cow, over the heads of the others, and following off after a single cow. 

They keep close to the cow’s head and feet, and she does not mind them; but when all go off in a whirring (rippling?) flock at my approach, the cow (about whom they were all gathered) looks off after them for some time, as if she felt deserted.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 25, 1855

A Book of the Seasons: August 25.

August 25.
A cheering fall rain
brings a different mood or
season of the mind.
August 25, 1852

At length, 

before sundown, 

it begins to rain. 

You can hardly say 

when it began, 

and now, after dark, 

the sound of it dripping 

and pattering 

is quite cheering.

It is long since I heard it. 

One of those serious 

and normal storms 

~ not a shower which

 you can see through, 

~not a transient cloud

 that drops rain 

but something regular,

a fall rain, 

coincident with a

 

different mood or 

season of the mind. 

August 25, 1852 

The sun, round and red,
is soon completely concealed
by the haze alone.
August 25, 1854

August 25, 2017

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 © 2009-2019

A “pack of grouse."

Ruffed Grouse

(Bonasa umbellus)

August 24.

Scare up a pack of grouse.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 24, 1855

Context:

• May 26, 1855 (The partridge which on the 12th had left three cold eggs covered up with oak leaves is now sitting on eight. )
• June 10, 1855 (My partridge still sits on seven eggs.)
• June 11, 1856 (A partridge with young in the Saw Mill Brook path... made such a noise and fluttering amid the weeds and bushes. Finally ran offwith its body flat and wings somewhat spread.)
• June 23, 1854 (Disturb three different broods of partridges in my walk this afternoon in different places. )
• June 26, 1857( See a pack of partridges as big as robins at least.)
• July 1, 1860 (I see young partridges not bigger than robins fly three or four rods, not squatting fast, now.)
• July 5, 1856 (Young partridges (with the old bird), as big as robins, make haste into the woods from off the railroad.)
• July 7, 1854 (Disturb two broods of partridges this afternoon, — one a third grown, flying half a dozen rods over the bushes, yet the old, as anxious as ever, rushing to me with the courage of a hen.)
• July 10, 1854 (Partridge, young one third grown.)
• July 23, 1854 (I see broods of partridges later than the others, now the size of the smallest chickens.)
• July 25, 1854 (I now start some packs of partridges, old and young, going off together without mewing.)
• July 28, 1854 (Partridges begin to go off in packs.) 

• August 24, 1855 (Scare up a pack of grouse.)

• August 27, 1852 (Young partridges two-thirds grown burst away.)
• September 18, 1852 (The partridges, grown up, oftener burst away.)
• September 18, 1857 ( We started a pack of grouse, which went off  with a whir like cannon-balls.

See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Partridge

A Book of the Seasons; August 24

August 24.

Wander where we will

the universe built round us 

we are central still. 

August 24, 1841

The sky curves downward

to the horizon because 

I draw down its skirts. 

August 24, 1841

Crimson-red undersides
of the great white lily pads,
turned up by the wind.
August 24, 1854

Looking up and down
the river this sunny,
breezy afternoon,
men busily haying
in gangs of four or five
revealed by their white shirts
some two miles below
toward Carlisle Bridge,
and others still
further up the stream
up to their shoulders
in the grassy sea,
almost lost in it,
a few white specks
in the shiny grass.
August 24, 1858

I look down a straight reach of water
to the hill by Carlisle Bridge
to see a part of earth
so far away over the water
that it appears islanded
between two skies.
If that place is real,
then the places of
my imagination are real.
August 24, 1858

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 © 2009-2019

A Book of the Seasons: August 23.

August 23.

A man in a boat

disappearing round a bend

far off in the sun.

August 23, 1851

I look out my eyes

I come to my window and 

I  breathe the fresh air.

August 23, 1852

A man in a boat

disappearing round a bend,

as in a picture.

August 23, 1851

Real wind blows over

the surface of a planet.

I breathe the fresh air.

August 23, 1852

I am peculiarly sensible this is a real wind

blowing from over the surface of a planet.

I look out at my eyes

I come to my window,

and I feel and breathe

the fresh air.

In August live on berries
be blown on by all the winds

grow ripe in Autumn.

August 23, 1852

Now begins the year's

dark green early afternoon

when shadows increase.

August 23, 1853

Sometimes something which

I have told another is

worth telling myself.

August 23, 1858

August 23, 2013

August 23, 2019

I sometimes remember something which I have told another as worth telling to myself, i.e. writing in my Journal. August 23, 1858

Nature is doing her best each moment to make us well. She exists for no other end. August 23, 1853

There is something invigorating in this air, which I am peculiarly sensible is a real wind blowing from over the surface of a planet. 

I look out at my eyes

I come to my window

and I feel and breathe 

the fresh air. 

It is a fact equally glorious with the most inward experience.  August 23, 1852

A man in a boat

disappearing round a bend

as in a picture.

August 23, 1851

There was a man in a boat in the sun, just disappearing in the distance round a bend, lifting high his arms and dipping his paddle as if he were a vision — far off, as in picture. August 23, 1851

Observing the blackness of the foliage, especially between me and the light, I am reminded that it begins in the spring,

                           the dewy dawn of the year, 

with a silvery hoary downiness, changing to a yellowish or light green, —  

  the saffron-robed morn, — 

then to a pure, spotless, glossy green with light under sides reflecting the light,—

               the forenoon, — 

and now the dark green,

                           or early afternoon,

when shadows begin to increase, and next it will turn yellow or red, — the sunset sky, — and finally sere brown and black, when 

                           the night of the year sets in.

I am again struck by the perfect correspondence of a day — say an August day — and the year. August 23, 1853

*****

Walden (" Nature is as well adapted to our weakness as to our strength.").

The Maine Woods ("daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it-rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! the solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?”)

Walden, "Spring" ("The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer.");

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 © 2009-2019

Barn swallows in the nest still.

August 22.
I hear of some young barn swallows in the nest still in R. Rice’s barn, Sudbury.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 22, 1855

A Book of the Seasons: August 22

August 22.

I hear muttering
of thunder as the first drops
dimple the river.
August 22, 1853

It pulls like an ox 

and makes me think there’s more wind 

abroad than there is. 

August 22, 1858

August 22, 2019

 

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 © 2009-2018

A Book of the Seasons: August 21.

August 21.

Measure the progress 

of the season by the clock 

of the blue vervain . . .

so you get not the

absolute time – but the true 

time of the season.

August 21, 1851

Bees on goldenrods

improve their time before the

sun of the year sets.

August 21, 1852

Rains all day and wind 

rises and shakes off much fruit

and beats down the corn.

August 21, 1856

August 21, 2019

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 © 2009-2015

A Book of the Seasons: August 20

August 20.
I cannot account
for this peculiar smoothness
of the dimpled stream.
August 20, 1853

If they are between
you and the sun, the trees are
more black than green.
August 20, 1853



Trees seen up the stream
look absolutely black now
in the clear bright light.
August 20, 1853

Single trees half mile

off stand out distinctly a

dark mass, almost black.

August 20, 1854

The red-eye has ceased
the woodland quire is dissolved
the concert is over.
August 20, 1854

When the red-eye ceases

the woodland quire is dissolved.

The concert is over.

The red-eye has ceased

the woodland quire is dissolved

the concert is over.

August 20, 1854

August 20, 2017

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 © 2009-2015

A Book of the Seasons: August 19.

August 19.

The poet must be 

continually watching 

the moods of his mind. 

August 19, 1851

How vain it is to

sit down to write when you have

not stood up to live.

August 19, 1851

Dog-day mists are gone.

This first bright day of the fall,

cooler air braces man.

August 19, 1853

Northwesterly wind,

cool, clear, and elastic air.

First day of autumn.

August 19, 1858

Wind from the northwest,

bracing and encouraging,

and we can now sail.

August 19, 1853

This haze, we see no

further than our Annursnack,

blue as a mountain.

August 19, 1854

First day of autumn.

cool clear and elastic air.

Northwesterly wind.

August 19, 1858

August 19, 2015

August 19, 2017

August 19, 2017

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