Seasons of the mind. The off side of summer glistens.

August 7.

It is inspiriting at last to hear the wind whistle and moan about my attic, after so much trivial summer weather, and to feel cool in my thin pants. 

August 7, 1854

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? Do not your thoughts begin to acquire consistency as well as flavor and ripeness? How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character? 

Already some of my small thoughts — fruit of my spring life — are ripe, like the berries which feed the first broods of birds; and other some are prematurely ripe and bright, like the lower leaves of the herbs which have felt the summer's drought. 

Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio.

I walk over the pinweed-field. It is just cool enough in my thin clothes. 

There is a light on the earth and leaves, as if they were burnished. It is the glistening autumnal side of summer. 

I feel a cool vein in the breeze, which braces my thought, and I pass with pleasure over sheltered and sunny portions of the sand where the summer's heat is undiminished, and I realize what a friend I am losing.

In mid-summer we are of the earth, — confounded with it, — and covered with its dust. Now we begin to erect our selves somewhat and walk upon its surface. I am not so much reminded of former years, as of existence prior to years.

August 7, 2014

This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 7, 1854

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? See August 9, 1854 ("'Walden' published.") See also January 30, 1854 ("The winter was made to concentrate and harden and mature the kernel of [man’s] brain.” )

Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. See August 3, 1852 (" By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe, I am fitted to hear, my being moves in a sphere of melody.”); May 23, 1854 ("There was a time when . . .I sat and listened to my thoughts, and there was a song in them. I sat for hours on rocks and wrestled with the melody which possessed me. . . Think . . . of so living as to be the lyre which the breath of the morning causes to vibrate with that melody which creates worlds.")

Strains . . . surpassing any oratorio. See September 7, 1851 ("My profession is to be always on the alert to find God in nature, to know his lurking-places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas, in nature.”)

This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield. Compare July 28, 1854 (“We postponed the fulfillment of many of our hopes for this year, and, having as it were attained the ridge of the summer, commenced to descend the long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year”); August 5, 1854 ("It is one long acclivity from winter to midsummer and another long declivity from midsummer to winter.")

August 7. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 7

The fruit of my spring

and summer ripens – its seed

hardens within me.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Seasons of the mind

 "A book, each page written in its own season, 

out-of-doors, in its own locality."  

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2024

 

tinyurl.com/hdt-540807 

***

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? Do not your thoughts begin to acquire consistency as well as flavor and ripeness? How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character? Already some of my small thoughts -- fruit of my  spring life -- are ripe, like the berries which feed the first broods of birds; and other some are prematurely ripe and bright, like the lower leaves of the herbs which knave felt the summer's drought. Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio. 

P. M. – To Peter’s, Beck Stow’s, and Walden.

Liatris.

Still autumnal, breezy with a cool vein in the wind; so that, passing from the cool and breezy into the sunny and warm places, you begin to love the heat of summer. It is the contrast of the cool wind with the warm sun.

I walk over the pinweed-field.

It is just cool enough in my thin clothes.

There is a light on the earth and leaves, as if they were burnished.

It is the glistening autumnal side of summer.

I feel a cool vein in the breeze, which braces my thought, and I pass with pleasure over sheltered and sunny portions of the sand where the summer’s heat is undiminished, and I realize what a friend I am losing.

The pinweed does not show its stamens - I mean the L.thymifolia.

It was open probably about July 25.

 This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield.

The waters now are some degrees cooler. Winds show the under sides of the leaves.

The cool nocturnal creak of the crickets is heard in the mid-afternoon. Tansy is apparently now in its prime, and the early goldenrods have acquired a brighter yellow. 

From this off side of the year, this imbricated slop, with alternating burnished surfaces and shady ledges, much more light and heat are reflected (less absorbed), me thinks than from the springward side. In mid-summer we are of the earth, -confounded with it, - and covered with its dust.

Now we begin to erect ourselves somewhat and walk upon its surface I am not so much reminded of former years, as of existence prior to years.

From Peter’s I look over the Great Meadows.

There are sixty or more men in sight on them, in squads of half a dozen far and near, revealed by their white shirts.

They are alternately lost and reappear from behind a distant clump of trees.

A great part of the farmers of Concord are now in the meadows, and toward night great loads of hay are seen rolling slowly along the river’s bank, — on the firmer ground there, - and perhaps fording the stream itself, toward the distant barn, followed by a troop of tired haymakers.

The very shrub oaks and hazels now look curled and dry in many places.

The bear oak acorns on the former begin to be handsome.

Tansy is in full blaze in some warm, dry places.

 It must be time, methinks, to collect the hazelnuts and dry them; many of their leaves are turned.

 The Jersey tea fruit is blackened.

 The bushy gerardia is apparently out in some places.

 Blueberries pretty thick in Gowing’s Swamp.

 Some have a slightly bitterish taste.

 A wasp stung me at one high blueberry bush on the forefinger of my left hand, just above the second joint.

 It was very venomous; a white spot with the red mark of the sting in the centre, while all the rest of the finger was red, soon showed where I was stung, and the finger soon swelled much below the joint, so that I could not completely close the finger, and the next finger sympathized so much with it that at first there was a little doubt which was stung.

 These insects are effectively weaponed.

 But there was not enough venom to prevail further than the finger.

 Trillium berry.