I see that I could assign some office to each day which,
summed up, would be the history of the year.
Henry Thoreau , August 24, 1852.
Henry Thoreau , August 24, 1852.
We have poetry
— flowers and the song of birds --
before woods leaf out.
May 1, 1852
One frog begins then
the whole pond joins in until
all stop together.
Little peeping frogs
make a sound you do not hear
unless you attend.
The bright blue river,
the fresh yellow green meadow,
the green river grass.
The peculiarly
beautiful, clean and tender
green of the grass there.
May 5, 1853
The willows are now
suddenly a tender fresh
light yellowish-green.
May 6, 1852
Immortal water
strange to us forever,
sparkling with life.
Sitting by the shore
this still cloudy thoughtful day
counting frog noses.
Shad-bush in blossom,
seen afar amid gray twigs,
before its own leaves.
The sugar maple
blossoms on the commons
resound with bees.
May 12, 1860
The expanding leaves
now beautiful in the rain
covered with clear drops.
May 13, 1852
The willow blossoms
fill the air with a sweet scent
Ah! willow willow!
Deciduous trees
are now a mist of leaflets
against the dark pines.
So clear bright and fresh
the whole earth is one flower,
genial to man.
How bright the new world,
how fresh and full of promise
after the May storm.
May 17 1852
Sunny yellow-green
light and life in the landscape.
This beautiful world.
Shadows sweep over
the waving meadow grasses.
Bright fair weather clouds.
May 19, 1860
Now is the time for
bright and breezy days blowing
off apple blossoms.
May 20, 1854
Their leaves like flowers,
the birches by the railroad
flash yellow on me.
May 21, 1860
The springing foliage
lighting up the landscape like
sunlight on the woods.
Pee-a-wee, Pee-oo.
In the woods behind the spring
a wood pewee sings.
The morning comes in
and awakens me early.
A window open.
Loud very rich song,
black head, rose breast, white beneath:
Rose-breasted Grosbeak.
This luxuriant growth
vibrating motion and light,
seasons' rapid whirl.
I hold a wood frog
the color of a dead leaf,
perfectly frog-like.
Like a true minstrel
the wood thrush sings steadily,
loud and clear and sweet.
May 28, 1855.
The white maple keys
fall and float down the stream like
wings of great insects.
Strong lights and shades now.
It is a day of shadows,
the leaves have so grown.
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2019
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