December 15.
December 15, 2023
Wednesday.
A mild summer sun shines, over forest and lake.
The earth looks as fair this morning as the Valhalla of the gods.
Indeed our spirits never go beyond nature.
In the woods there is an inexpressible happiness.
Their mirth is but just repressed.
In winter, when there is but one green leaf for many rods, what warm content is in them! They are not rude, but tender, even in the severest cold.
Their nakedness is their defense.
All their sounds and sights are elixir to my spirit.
They possess a divine health.
God is not more well.
Every sound is inspiriting and fraught with the same mysterious assurance, from the creaking of the boughs in January to the soft sough of the wind in July.
. . .
The trees have come down to the bank to see the river go by.
This old, familiar river is renewed each instant; only the channel is the same. The water which so calmly reflects the fleeting clouds and the primeval trees I have never seen before.
It may have washed some distant shore, or framed a glacier or iceberg at the north, when I last stood here.
. . .
I seem to see somewhat more of my own kith and kin in the lichens on the rocks than in any books.
It does seem as if mine were a peculiarly wild nature, which so yearns toward all wildness.
I know of no redeeming qualities in me but a sincere love for some things, and when I am reproved I have to fall back on to this ground.
This is my argument in reserve for all cases.
My love is invulnerable. Meet me on that ground, and you will find me strong. When I am condemned, and condemn myself utterly, I think straightway, “But I rely on my love for some things.” Therein I am whole and entire.
Therein I am God-propped.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 15, 1841In winter, when there is but one green leaf for many rods, what warm content is in them! They are not rude, but tender, even in the severest cold.
Their nakedness is their defense.
All their sounds and sights are elixir to my spirit.
They possess a divine health.
God is not more well.
Every sound is inspiriting and fraught with the same mysterious assurance, from the creaking of the boughs in January to the soft sough of the wind in July.
. . .
The trees have come down to the bank to see the river go by.
This old, familiar river is renewed each instant; only the channel is the same. The water which so calmly reflects the fleeting clouds and the primeval trees I have never seen before.
It may have washed some distant shore, or framed a glacier or iceberg at the north, when I last stood here.
. . .
I seem to see somewhat more of my own kith and kin in the lichens on the rocks than in any books.
It does seem as if mine were a peculiarly wild nature, which so yearns toward all wildness.
I know of no redeeming qualities in me but a sincere love for some things, and when I am reproved I have to fall back on to this ground.
This is my argument in reserve for all cases.
My love is invulnerable. Meet me on that ground, and you will find me strong. When I am condemned, and condemn myself utterly, I think straightway, “But I rely on my love for some things.” Therein I am whole and entire.
Therein I am God-propped.
And he looked up, and said,
I see men as trees, walking.
— Mark 8:22-25.
The trees have come down to the bank to see the river go by. See Walden ("Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.")
December 15, 2023
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
tinyurl.com/hdt411215
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