Such is a winter’s eve.

The now dark green pines.

The oak leaves and withered weeds 

bleached above the snow.

Perchance the faint 

metallic chip of a 

single tree sparrow. 

The hushed stillness of 

the wood at sundown, aye

all the winter day.

The short boreal twilight.

The smooth serentity

and reflections of the pond, 

alone free from ice. 

Hooting of the owl

with the distant whistle of 

a locomotive.

The last strokes of the 

woodchopper who presently 

bends his steps homeward.

Gilded bar of cloud

conducting my thoughts into

the eternal west. 

The horizon glow,

and the hasty walk homeward.

Long winter evening.

H. D. Thoreau, December 15, 1856

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.

  April 7, 1853 

December 15. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, December 15

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