The snow is sixteen inches deep at least, but it is a mild and genial afternoon. I feel my spirits rise when I get off the road into the open fields. The sky has a new appearance. I step along more buoyantly . . .The life, the joy, that is in blue sky after a storm!
I feel spirits rise –
the life, the joy that is in
blue sky after storm!
the life, the joy that is in
blue sky after storm!
There is no account of the blue sky in history. I must live above all in the present.
Live in the present –
there is no account of the
blue sky in history.
January 7, 1851
The bird-shaped scales of
the white birch are blown more than
twenty rods from trees.
January 7, 1854
It would not be worth
the while to die and leave all
this life behind one.
January 7, 1855
I see birch scales (bird-like) on the snow on the river more than twenty rods south of the nearest and only birch, and trace them north to it.
Tracing birch scales north
twenty rods to the nearest
and the only birch.
January 7, 1856
The storm is over –
beautiful winter morning,
one of creation.
These true mornings of
creation, original
and poetic days.
January 7, 1858
Later this evening, walking to Lincoln to lecture in a driving snow-storm, the invisible moon gives light through the thickest of it. How richly the snow lays on the cedar!
The invisible moon
gives light through the thickest of
a driving snow-storm.
January 7, 1852
gives light through the thickest of
a driving snow-storm.
January 7, 1852
All nature is but braced by the cold. It gives tension to both body and mind.
All Nature braced by
the cold that gives tension to
both body and mind.
January 7, 1853
the cold that gives tension to
both body and mind.
January 7, 1853
The bird-shaped scales of the white birch are blown more than twenty rods from the trees.
The bird-shaped scales of
the white birch are blown more than
twenty rods from trees.
January 7, 1854
Here comes a little flock of titmice, plainly to keep me company, with their black caps and throats making them look top-heavy, restlessly hopping along the alders, with a sharp, clear, lisping note.
A little flock of titmice
with their black caps and throats
restlessly hopping along
with sharp clear lisping notes.
January 7, 1855
A little flock of titmice
with their black caps and throats
restlessly hopping along
with sharp clear lisping notes.
January 7, 1855
It would not be worth the while to die and leave all this life behind one.
It would not be worth
the while to die and leave all
this life behind one.
January 7, 1855
I see birch scales (bird-like) on the snow on the river more than twenty rods south of the nearest and only birch, and trace them north to it.
Tracing birch scales north
twenty rods to the nearest
and the only birch.
January 7, 1856
It is bitter cold, with a cutting northwest wind. . . .. All animate things are reduced to their lowest terms. . . .Alone in distant woods or fields, in unpretending sprout-lands or pastures tracked by rabbits, even in a bleak and, to most, cheerless day, like this, when a villager would be thinking of his inn, I come to myself, I once more feel myself grandly related, and that cold and solitude are friends of mine.
It is bitter cold
with a cutting northwest wind –
I come to myself.
January 7, 1857
with a cutting northwest wind –
I come to myself.
January 7, 1857
The storm is over, and it is one of those beautiful winter mornings when a vapor is seen hanging in the air between the village and the woods . . . These are true mornings of creation, original and poetic days, not mere repetitions of the past.
The storm is over –
beautiful winter morning,
one of creation.
These true mornings of
creation, original
and poetic days.
January 7, 1858
January 7, 2019
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 © 2009-2024
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