A cold and windy
afternoon with snow not yet
melted on the ground.
My eye wanders as
I sit on an oak stump by
an old cellar hole.
Transient gladness.--
I do not know what it is,
something that saw.
This recognition
from white pines now reflecting
a silvery light.
Methinks that in my
mood I was asking Nature
to give me a sign.
Where is my home now?
Faint as an old cellar hole,
Such is where we live.
And I sit by the
old site on the stump of an
oak which once grew there.
A cold afternoon
windy with some snow not yet
melted on the ground.
windy with some snow not yet
melted on the ground.
My eye wanders as
I sit on an oak stump by
an old cellar hole.
Transient gladness.
I do not know what it is --
something that I see.
This recognition
from white pines now reflecting
a silvery light.
Methinks that in my
mood I was asking Nature
to give me a sign.
mood I was asking Nature
to give me a sign.
Where is my home now?
Indistinct old cellar-hole,
faint indentation.
And by the old site
I sit on the stump of an
oak which once grew there.
oak which once grew there.
A man advances
somewhat meanderingly
as a river does.
November 30, 1853
There was more light in
the water than in the sky
as we paddled home.
How wild it makes the
pond and the township to find
a new fish in it!
November 30, 1858
From Pine Hill, Wachusett is seen over Walden. The country seems to slope up from the west end of Walden to the mountain. November 30, 1852
Wachusett from Fair Haven Hill, August 2, 1852
 |
Overlooking Walden Pond toward
Waschusett, from Pine Hill
April 28, 1906
Waschusett, from Pine Hill
April 28, 1906
But did ever clouds flit and change, form and dissolve, so fast as in this clear, cold air? November 30, 1858
Coming over the side of Fair Haven Hill at sunset, we saw a large, long, dusky cloud in the northwest horizon, apparently just this side of Wachusett, or at least twenty miles off, which was snowing, when all the rest was clear sky. It was a complete snow-cloud. November 30, 1858
Thus local is all storm, surrounded by serenity and beauty. November 30, 1858
My eye wanders across the valley to the pine woods which fringe the opposite side, and in their aspect my eye finds something which addresses itself to my nature. November 30, 1851
Already, a little after 4 o'clock, the sparkling windows and vanes of the village, seen under and against the faintly purple-tinged, slate-colored mountains, remind me of a village in a mountainous country at twilight, where early lights appear. November 30, 1852
I think that this peculiar sparkle without redness, a cold glitter, is peculiar to this season. November 30, 1852
 |
| November 30, 2015 |
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
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