The poet must be
continually watching
the moods of his mind.
How vain it is to
sit down to write when you have
not stood up to live.
Dog-day mists are gone.
This first bright day of the fall,
cooler air braces man.
Shades of green only
to be seen at this season
of the day and year.
Fresh and tender green
of so many shades blending
harmoniously.
August 19, 1854
This haze, we see no
further than our Annursnack,
blue as a mountain.
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| August 19, 2015 |
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| August 19, 2017 |
August 19, 2017
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 © 2009-2021
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