Last day for skating
pleasant and warm — winter still—
the finest day yet.
March 1, 1855
The scream of the jay
perfectly repeated— the
echo from a wood.
On the first spring day
we first hear the pheobe note
of the chickadee.
The spring sun shining
on the sloping icy shores
makes dazzling ice-blinks.
I have thoughts as I
walk on some subject that is
running in my head.
March 1, 1860
March 1, 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 © 2009-2016
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