Monday, April 4, 2016

A Book of the Seasons: April 4.

April 4.

I feel on my cheek 
air cooled by the snow stretching
to the Icy Sea.
April 4, 1852

A warm dripping rain
now heard on one's umbrella 
  as on a snug roof

a slow contentment
like turtles so comfortable 
  under their shells

we walk under the 
clouds and mists all compact and
  our thoughts collected

we seem to hear the 
ground a-soaking up the rain
  abroad in a storm.

We, too, are penetrated 
and revived by it.
April 4, 1853

A warm dripping rain
now heard on one's umbrella 
as on a snug roof
a slow contentment
like turtles under their shells
so comfortable 
we walk under the 
clouds and mists all compact
our thoughts collected
abroad in a storm.

We too are penetrated 
and revived by it.
April 4, 1853


Snow-covered mountains
in the northwest horizon
glisten in the sun.

April 4, 1855

All the earth is bright.
The very pines glisten and
the water is blue. 
April 4, 1855

Black-centered gobules
in spherical masses 
of transparent jelly.
April 4, 1857

The wind piercing cold
I look to see sheeny snow
glazing the mountains.

Cold and sheeny snow 
still glazing the mountains makes
the wind piercing cold.
April 4, 1859


The birds are eager 
to sing, as flowers to bloom, 
after raw weather.
April 4, 1860



 
After raw weather
the birds are eager to sing
as flowers to bloom. 
April 4, 1860


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 © 2009-2020

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