A Book of the Seasons: September 21

September 21.

A wild apple tree

in the midst of a large swamp –

I fill my pockets.

September 21, 1852

Last night the first frost –

the grass in our yard white and

stiff in the morning.

September 21, 1854

The forenoon is cold –

but it's a fine clear day for

an afternoon walk.

September 21, 1854

With these cooler days

we again appreciate

the warmth of the sun.

September 21, 1857

Peculiarly fine

September day, warm and bright–

yellow butterflies.

September 21, 1859

 Fine September day 

 with yellow butterflies and 

early-changed maples

 September 21, 1859

September 21, 2019

The first frost in our yard last night, the grass white and stiff in the morning. September 21, 1854 

The forenoon is cold, and I have a fire, but it is a fine clear day, as I find when I come forth to walk in the afternoon. September 21, 1854 

A fine-grained air, seething or shimmering as I look over the fields, reminds me of the Indian summer that is to come. Do not these days always succeed the first frosty mornings? September 21, 1854 

The warmth of the sun is just beginning to be appreciated again on the advent of cooler days.  September 21, 1857

A peculiarly fine September day, looking toward the fall, warm and bright, with yellow butterflies in the the washed road, and early-changed maples and shrubs adorning the low grounds. September 21, 1859. 

September 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