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
November
whose name sounds so bleak and cheerless.
Perhaps its harvest of thought
is worth more than all the other crops of the year.
November.
The month of withered leaves
and bare twigs and limbs.
November.
The landscape prepared for winter,
without snow.
November.
In the clear, white, leafless twilight
the bare branches of the oak woods
await the onset of the wind.
November.
Now a man will eat his heart,
now while the earth is bare,
barren and cheerless.
November.
The coldness of winter
without the variety
of ice and snow;
but
How bright the November stars!
November!
.
The bare, bleak, hard, and
barren-looking tawny pastures.
The firm outline of the hills.
The air so bracing and wholesome.
Still man beholds the inaccessible beauty around him
It is glorious November weather,
and only November fruits are out.
.
***
Crows fly southwest in
a very long straggling flock.
I see neither end.
November 1, 1853
We come home in the
autumn twilight; clear white light
penetrates the woods.
November 2, 1853
Sailing past the bank
just before a clear sundown--
my second shadow!
Bare limbs and twigs,
a ripple on the river,
cool northerly wind.
November 3, 1852
All this is distinct
to an observant eye, yet
unnoticed by most.
November 3, 1861
A few small hemlocks
remind me of snows to come.
Shelter for the birds.
November 4, 1851
In the natural state
when given sufficient time
each knows its own place.
November 5, 1860
Remarkable how
little we attend to what
passes before us.
November 6, 1853
A clear cold morning.
I walk with hands in pockets.
The sun far southward.
November 7, 1853
The notes of small birds
like a nail on an anvil
in now leafless woods.
November 7, 1853
The view contracted,
my world and life simplified
by the misty rain.
Though she works slowly,
she has much time to work in.
Nature perseveres.
November 8, 1860
What has become of
Nature when the mud puddles
reflect skies and trees?
November 9, 1851
Grand natural features,
waving woods and huge boulders,
are not on the map.
November 10, 1860
Apples are frozen
on the trees and rattle like
stones in my pocket.
November 11, 1853
A bright, but cold day,
One must next wear gloves,
hands' winter quarters.
November 11, 1851
Awake or dreaming
are we not always living
the life we imagine?
November 12, 1859
Little birds peck at
white birch catkins and fly off
with a jingling sound.
November 13, 1852
October light fades
into the clear, white, leafless,
November twilight.
November 14, 1853
I see a lichen
on a rock in a meadow,
a perfect circle.
November 15, 1850
I now take notice
of the green polypody
and the other ferns.
November 16, 1853
Andromeda swamp
a glowing warm brown red
looking toward the sun.
November 17, 1859
Rejoice for this world
where owls live, the infinite
roominess of nature.
November 18, 1851
Indian summer --
Has it not fine calm spring days
answering to it?
November 19, 1853
The sparkling white light
reflected from all surfaces.
November glory.
November 20, 1858
These forms and colors
so adapted to my eye
cannot be improved.
November 21, 1850
I am made to love
the pond and meadow as wind
to ripple water.
November 21, 1850
November's bare, bleak,
inaccessible beauty
seen through a clear air.
November 22, 1860
The new-fallen snow
seen lying just as it fell
on the twigs and leaves.
November 23, 1852
Clear and freezing cold,
the beginning of winter.
Ice forms in my boat.
November 24, 1853
This clear cold water
is as empty as the air.
I see no fishes.
November 25, 1859
Faint creak of a limb
heard in this oak wood is the
note of a nuthatch.
The bare, barren earth
cheerless without ice and snow.
But how bright the stars.
These November days
twilight makes so large a part
of the afternoon.
Flock of snow buntings
concealed in a stubble-field,
not yet very white,
November 29, 1859
The sparkling windows
and vanes of the village seen
against the mountains.
November 30, 1852
***
November
Much cold, slate-colored cloud,
bare twigs seen gleaming toward the light like gossamer,
pure green of pines whose old leaves have fallen,
reddish or yellowish brown oak leaves rustling on the hillsides,
very pale brown, bleaching,
almost hoary fine grass or hay in the fields,
akin to the frost which has killed it,
and flakes of clear yellow sunlight
falling on it here and there,
— such is November.
The sunlight is a peculiarly thin and clear yellow,
falling on the pale-brown bleaching herbage of the fields at this season. ...
This is November sunlight.
Call these November Lights.
Hers is a cool, silvery light.
In November consider
the sharp, dry rustle of withered leaves;
the cool, silvery, and shimmering gleams of light, [and]
the fresh bright buds formed and exposed along the twigs.
October 25, 1858
The glory of November is in its silvery, sparkling lights.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November Days II
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
