June 22, 2013
Sometimes we are calmed
like a still lake when there is
not a breath of wind.
Without an effort
our depths revealed to our selves
as the world goes by.
We touch the world and
feel exquisite pleasure – our
Maker blessing us.
Awake to music
that no one about us hears –
we live and rejoice.
And I hear around me, but never in sight,
the many wood thrushes whetting their notes.
Always rising or falling to a new strain,
after a pause they deliver again!
saying ever a new thing,
A succession of thunder-showers to-day
and at sunset a rainbow . . .
Is not the rainbow
a faint vision of God's face?
As I come over the hill,
I hear the wood thrush
singing his evening lay.
I long for wildness,
a nature which I cannot put my foot through,
woods where the wood thrush forever sings,
where the hours are early morning ones,
and there is dew on the grass,
and the day is forever unproved,
where I might have a fertile unknown for a soil about me.
At 6 P. M.
the temperature
of the air is 77° . . .
Warmest day yet.
June 22, 1855
June 22, 1855
The woods still resound
with the note of my tweezer-bird.
June 22, 1856
June 22, 1856
Monday.
Took the steamer Acorn
about 9 a. m. for Boston,
in the fog.
Pine pollen adhering
to the inside of the boat
along the water-line.
One who is not almost daily on the river
will not perceive the revolution constantly going on.
The pretty new moon
in the west is quite red
this evening.
June 22, 2016
If you make the least correctobservation of nature this year,you will have occasion to repeat itwith illustrations the next,and the season and life itself is prolonged.A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, June 22A 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
see also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Serene as the Sky
No comments:
Post a Comment