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
A late breeze rises
wood thrush and tanager sing
sparkling the river.
Fine silvery light
reflecting from the blades of
miles of waving grass.
Wintergreen blossom,
pretty little chandelier,
adorns forest floor.
Waves of light and shade
over the breadth of the land
sweeping the landscape.
Shadows of pine stems
fall across the small wood path
red with pine-needles.
June grasses are past.
Now the grass turns to hay as
flowers turn to fruits.
Lilies surprise me.
Now the flowering season
has reached its height.
The moon reflected
from the rippled surface like
a stream of dollars.
Busy hummingbird
unmindful of the shower,
struck by a big drop.
Aboriginal
bream over its sandy nest
poised on waving fin.
Waving in the wind
this grass gives a purple sheen
over the meadow.
Long after starlight
high-pillared clouds of the day
reflect downy light.
Hayers rest at noon
and resume after sunset.
The Haymaker’s moon.
A fine misty rain
lies on reddish tops of grass
like morning cobwebs.
Thoughts driven inward
by clouds and trees reflected
in the still, smooth water.
Dark-blue winding stripe,
green meadow, dark-green forest,
blue dark and white sky.
Flying shore to shore,
yellowish devil's-needles
cross their Atlantic.
With midsummer heats
asters and goldenrods now,
children of the sun.
The more smothering,
furnace-like heats are begun,
and the locust days.
We see the first star
and know not if we might have
seen it earlier.
Sun warm on my back
I turn round and shade my face -
a beautiful life.
Our fairest days born
in a fog, the season of
morning fogs arrived.
Along the river
the memory of roses -
late rose now in prime.
In low Flint's Pond Path
goldenrod makes a thicket
higher than my head.
Fog rises highest
over the river and ponds
which are thus revealed.
July 25, 1852
Sun's disk round and red
seen well above horizon
through thick atmosphere.
The voice of the loon
in the middle of the night
far over the lake.
Goldenrod, asters
grasshoppers now abundant -
cooler breezy air.
Kindred red color
of skies in the evening and
fruits in the harvest.
Grand sound of the rain
on the leaves of the forest
distant, approaching.
Thoughts of autumn and
the memory of past years
occupy my mind.
July 31, 1856
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 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
