The leaves have fallen
and the woods are now open
and they let in light
and I see the sky
in every direction.
It is a bright, clear,
warm November day.
I feel blessed.
I love my life.
I warm toward
all nature.
November 1, 1851
Two white pines on the
rock edge frame a picture of
the forest and lake.
Crows fly southwest in
a very long straggling flock.
I see neither end.
Slate-colored heron
blue as of the sky and dark
water commingled.
Distinct reflection --
very luminous light blue --
of John Flint’s white house.
The short afternoons
and early evenings in this
twilight of the year
remind us of the
shortness of life.
We are prompted to
make haste and finish our work
before the night comes.
Flocks of gossamer
shimmering in the fields and
sailing in the air.
November 1, 1860
November 1, 2016
In November, a man will eat his heart, if in any month. November 1, 1852
It is a bright, clear, warm November day. I feel blessed. I love my life. I warm toward all nature. November 1, 1851
As I approached their edge, I saw the woods beneath, Fair Haven Pond, and the hills across the river, . . .between the converging boughs of two white pines a rod or two from me on the edge of the rock; and I thought that there was no frame to a landscape equal to this, — to see, between two near pine boughs, whose lichens are distinct, a distant forest and lake, the one frame, the other picture. November 1, 1852
As I return, I notice crows flying southwesterly in a very long straggling flock, of which I see probably neither end. November 1, 1853
Counted one hundred and twenty five crows in one straggling flock moving westward. November 1, 1851
As I stood on the south bank of the river a hundred rods southwest of John Flint’s, the sun being just about to enter a long and broad dark-blue or slate-colored cloud in the horizon, a cold, dark bank, I saw that the reflection of Flint’s white house in the river, prolonged by a slight ripple so as to reach the reflected cloud, was a very distinct and luminous light blue. November 1, 1858
As the afternoons grow shorter, and the early evening drives us home to complete our chores, we are reminded of the shortness of life, and become more pensive, at least in this twilight of the year. We are prompted to make haste and finish our work before the night comes. November 1, 1858
Gossamer on the withered grass is shimmering in the fields, and flocks of it are sailing in the air. November 1, 1860
When I enter the woods I notice the drier crispier rustle of withered leaves on the oak trees, – a sharper susurrus. November 1, 1857
The woods are now much more open than when I last observed them; the leaves have fallen, and they let in light, and I see the sky through them as through a crow's wing in every direction. November 1, 1851
*****
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| November 1, 2 016 |
November 1, 2019
November 1, 2021
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
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