The year is but a succession of days,
and I see that I could assign some office to each day
which, summed up, would be the history of the year.
When the darkness comes
do not the stars like fireflies
show their light for love?
The distant river
reflects the light at this hour
like molten silver.
The distant river
at this hour merely reflects
the light not the blue.
June 16, 1853
It is eight days since
I plucked the great orchis still
fresh in my pitcher.
June 16, 2018
How agreeable
the wholesome fragrance of the
blackberry blossom.
A green sea of pipes,
uniform dark liquid green,
visible afar.
Do I not live in a garden, — in paradise? I can go out each morning before breakfast — I do — and gather these flowers with which to perfume my chamber where I read and write, all day. June 16, 1854.
It appears to me that these phenomena occur simultaneously, say June 12th, viz.: -
• Heat about. 85° at 2 P.M.
• Hylodes cease to peep.
• Purring frogs (Rana palustris) cease.
• Lightning-bugs first seen.
• Bullfrogs trump generally.
• Mosquitoes begin to be really troublesome.
• Afternoon thunder-showers almost regular.
• Sleep with open window.
• Turtles fairly and generally begun to lay.
June 16, 1860
The distant river is like molten silver at this hour; it merely reflects the light, not the blue. June 16, 1853
A flute from some villager. How rare among men so fit a thing as the sound of a flute at evening! June 16, 1852
Heat lightning in the horizon. June 16, 1852
The meadows full of lightning-bugs to-night; first seen the 14th. June 16, 1860
Have not the fireflies in the meadow relation to the stars above etincelant? June 16, 1852
When the darkness comes, we see stars beneath also. June 16, 1852
Do not the stars, too, show their light for love, like the fireflies? June 16, 1852
There are northern lights, shooting high up withal. June 16, 1852
*****
June 16, 2021
*****
June 16, 2020
If you make the least correct
observation of nature this year,
you will have occasion to repeat it
with illustrations the next,
and the season and life itself is prolonged.
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 © 2009-2023
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