Perchance the faint
metallic chip of a
single tree sparrow.
The now dark green
pines.
The oak leaves and withered weeds
bleached above the snow.
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
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 © 2009-2025
https://tinyurl.com/hdt-wintereve
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