A year is made up of
a certain series and number
of sensations and thoughts
which have their language in nature.
Henry Thoreau, June 6, 1857
I would know when in the year
to expect certain thoughts and moods,
as the sportsman knows
when to look for plover.
when to look for plover.
September 1.
Thistle-down descends
Smooth lake, full of reflections,
the ripening year.
September 1, 1852
Now after the rain
the air of late is cooler,
clearer, autumnal.
A season for berries
as beautiful as flowers,
berries far less known.
These mornings I move
into an eastern chamber
to sit in the sun.
September 5.
Water rises, winds come,
weeds are drifted to the shore.
The water is cleared.
September 5, 1854
Incessant flashes
lighting the edge of the cloud –
a rush of cool wind.
Paddling without sound
toward clouds in the sunset sky
as the twilight fades.
The ripening year
all my thoughts break out spotted
yellow green and brown.
September 9.
Liatris blooming
rich fiery rose-purple
like the sun rising.
September 9, 1852
Dew on a fine grass
white and silvery as frost
seen against the sun.
This cold white twilight
and bright starlight makes us think
of wood for winter.
One dense mass of the
bright-golden solidago
waving in the wind.
September 13.
Here at this season
a golden blaze salutes me
from a thousand suns.
With their shrill whistle
tell-tales sailing in a flock
showing their white tails.
Let the traveller
bethink himself
elevate and expand
his thoughts somewhat
that his successors
may oftener hereafter
be cheered by the sight
here and there
of a New England aster
to remind him that
a poet or philosopher
has passed this way.
Witch-hazel opened.
A third or a half its leaves
are yellow and brown.
Shadow transits rock,
eight or ten in sight from cliffs.
Such a day for hawks.
September 17.
Each plant has its turn! – as if the seasons revolve for it alone. September 17, 1857
To live each season
as if nothing else to do
but live each season.
The dimpling circles
inscribed and erased amid
the reflected skies.
The forenoon is cold,
but it's a fine clear day for
an afternoon walk.
These bracing fine days
when frosts come to ripen the
year, the days, like fruit.
The summer concludes
with the crisis of first frosts.
The end of berries.
Suddenly withered
the rich brown button-bushes
paint the river’s brim.
I am detained by
the bright red blackberry leaves
strewn along the sod.
Single red maples
bright against the cold green pines
now seen a mile off.
A little dipper
in middle of the river.
I sit down and watch.
The first severe frost
in the garden this morning,
ice under the pump.
Cool breezy evening
with a prolonged white twilight,
quite Septemberish.
Insects in my path.
Each has a special errand
in this world, this hour.
“The year is but a succession of days,
and I see that I could assign
some office to each day
some office to each day
which, summed up, would be
the history of the year.”
the history of the year.”
Henry Thoreau, August 24, 1852
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau. September Days
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
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