To make the first tracks
in this road through the woods, as
snow blows and drifts still.
January 19, 1852
I never saw blue
in snow so bright as this damp,
dark, stormy morning.
January 19, 1855
More than a mile off,
reflecting the setting sun,
the pail shines brightly.
January 19, 1859
The pyramidal
tops of a white pine forest
in the horizon.
Just after sunset
far in the west horizon --
A mackerel sky.
 |
| January 15, 2014 2:57 P.M. |
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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