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
Warm rain on the roof
puddles shining in the road,
April comes in true.
April 1, 1855
Something reminds me
of the song of the robin,
rainy days, past springs.
April 2, 1854
Southeasterly wind
its sough in the pines sounds warm,
whispering summer.
April 3, 1854
White maple trees stand
in the midst of the old snow,
buds slightly opened.
April 3, 1856
Snow-covered mountains
in the northwest horizon
glisten in the sun.
April 4, 1855
These truly warm days
just so simple every year.
Butterflies and frogs!
April 5, 1854
A sober moist day
with a circle round the sun
seen in reflection.
April 5, 1855
White maples resound
with the hum of honey-bees
like a summer dream.
April 6, 1854
The hazel stigmas
are well out and catkins loose,
but no pollen shed.
April 7, 1854
As always April
is unexpectedly warm
in sheltered places.
April 8, 1859
Two marsh hawks circling
along the water’s edge low
over the meadows.
April 8, 1856
At this still season
before the crickets begin
I hear the bees hum.
April 9, 1853
Earliest flowers
bloom when most have not begun
to think of flowers.
Deciduous tree
reflections at this season
make wonderful rhyme.
April 11, 1852
Bright-yellow blossoms
on willow catkins today,
color of the sun.
April 12, 1852
Mountains clad with snow,
and the wind being northwest
accounts for this cold.
April 12, 1855
Take off coat, hear toads'
loud, ringing sound fill the air
which yet few notice.
April 13, 1853
Ice goes to the sea.
Now sails the fish hawk overhead,
looking for his prey.
April 14, 1852
A general tinge of green
on the bared meadows and hills
now just peeping forth.
April 14, 1854
The sound of church bells.
Song of the villages heard
with song of the birds.
April 15, 1855
We always expect
warmer weather than we have
at this time of year.
April 15, 1860
Sun not fairly out,
cold disagreeable day,
yet snow melts apace.
April 16, 1854
Eastern horizon
reflected in smooth waters
just after sunrise.
April 16, 1855
Eastern horizon
pale salmon in skim-milk blue
just after sunrise.
Buff-edged fluttering
over the leaves in wood-paths
this warm afternoon.
April 16, 1855
A striped snake rustles
down a dry open hillside
in long withered grass.
April 16, 1855
Pale blue mountain haze
ushers in the long summer
our warmest day yet.
April 16, 1855
The distant white pines
flake into tiers, the whole tree
like an open cone.
April 17, 1855
Quickly and surely
the bee finds the first flower
before the poet.
April 17, 1855
How pleasing the sounds
awakened nature in spring
first humming of bees.
April 17, 1859
By expectation
spring butterflies reappear
to complete the world.
Nature made warblers
to show every hue and shade.
The warblers now come.
April 19, 1854
Middle of the Pond
smallest duck I ever saw
buoyantly asleep.
April 19, 1855
Yesterday is like
a reflection in water.
Ideal inverted.
April 20, 1854
Up the hill beyond
the brook I sit on a rock
below the old trough.
April 21, 1854
The pine on Lee’s shore
seen against the light water
this cloudy weather.
April 22, 1852
Sitting on the cliffs
drops fall in the woods below
as sun shines above.
April 21, 1855
White-headed eagle
edgewise like a black ripple,
concealed in the sky.
April 23, 1854
Sail before the wind.
You must live in the present,
launch on every wave.
April 24, 1859
The first partridge drums.
Now earth’s pulse beats audibly
with the flow of life.
Bushes ring with song,
evening sky reflected from
the rippled water.
April 25, 1855
How pleasant in spring
a still overcast day like this
when water is smooth.
And the robin sings
with more vigor and promise
this mizzling still day.
The spring of the world
first flowers followed bare rock.
So the spring this year.
Near noon of the year
nature takes a siesta--
Summer in the air.
Spring flowers flash out
like poetry the blossom
preceding the leaf.
Mottled light and shade
seen looking into the woods
is more like summer.
The scream of a hawk
over Holden woods and swamp.
Those two men with guns.
April 30, 1855
I hear from afar
the scream of a hawk circling
Holden woods and swamp.
April 30, 1855
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, April 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
