Wander where we will
the universe built round us
we are central still.
The sky curves downward
to the horizon because
I draw down its skirts.
August 24, 1841
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
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~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2019
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
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