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| November 22, 2017 |
Perhaps its harvest of thought
is worth more than
all the other crops of the year.
The month of withered leaves
and bare twigs and limbs.
November.
The landscape, prepared for winter,
without snow.
November.
The clear, white, leafless twilight.
The bare branches of the oak woods
awaiting the onset of the wind.
November.
Now a man will eat his heart,
now while the earth is bare,
barren and cheerless.
The coldness of winter
without the variety of ice and snow.
But how bright
the November stars!
Still man beholds
the November stars!
Still man beholds
the inaccessible beauty
around him.
around him.
November.
The bare, bleak, hard, and
barren-looking tawny pastures.
The firm outline of the hills.
The air so bracing and wholesome.
It is glorious November weather,
and only November fruits are out.
and only November fruits are out.
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
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2018
See November11, 1858; October 28, 1852; October 30, 1853; November 14, 1853; November 27, 1853; November 22, 1860;; see also November 25, 1857 ("Nature has herself become like the few fruits which she still affords, a very thick-shelled nut with a shrunken meat within.”)
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