God exhibits himself
in a frosted bush to-day
as to Moses of old.
The earth is our ship –
the sound of the wind in her
rigging as we sail.
January 2, 2019
The bells are particularly sweet this morning. January 2, 1853
The ringing of the church bell is a much more melodious sound than any that is heard within the church .January 2, 1842
Men obey their call and go to the stove-warmed church, though God exhibits himself to the walker in a frosted bush to-day, as much as in a burning one to Moses of old. January 2, 1853
I wish to get on to a hill to look down on the winter landscape. January 2, 1854
Looking from the southwest side of Walden toward Heywood's Peak before sunset, the brown light on the oak leaves is almost dazzling. January 2, 1859
The color of young oaks of different species is still distinct, but more faded and blended, becoming a more uniform brown. January 2, 1859
I listen to the sharp, dry rustle of the withered oak leaves. This is the voice of the wood now. January 2, 1859
It sounds like the roar of the sea, and is enlivening and inspiriting like that, suggesting how all the land is seacoast to the aerial ocean. January 2, 1859
It is the sound of the surf, the rut of an unseen ocean, billows of air breaking on the forest like water on itself or on sand and rocks. January 2, 1859
It rises and falls, wells and dies away, with agreeable alternation as the sea surf does. January 2, 1859
It is remarkable how universal these grand murmurs are, these backgrounds of sound . . . are essentially one voice, the earth-voice, the breathing or snoring of the creature. January 2, 1859
The earth is our ship, and this is the sound of the wind in her rigging as we sail. January 2, 1859
I listen to the sharp, dry rustle of the withered oak leaves. This is the voice of the wood now. January 2, 1859
It sounds like the roar of the sea, and is enlivening and inspiriting like that, suggesting how all the land is seacoast to the aerial ocean. January 2, 1859
It is the sound of the surf, the rut of an unseen ocean, billows of air breaking on the forest like water on itself or on sand and rocks. January 2, 1859
It rises and falls, wells and dies away, with agreeable alternation as the sea surf does. January 2, 1859
It is remarkable how universal these grand murmurs are, these backgrounds of sound . . . are essentially one voice, the earth-voice, the breathing or snoring of the creature. January 2, 1859
The earth is our ship, and this is the sound of the wind in her rigging as we sail. January 2, 1859
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2017
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”
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