The ripening year
excites me to a sort of
autumnal madness . . .
while gathering grapes
all my thoughts break out spotted
yellow green and brown.
 |
| Blue-stem goldenrod September 8, 2017 |
| September 8, 2019 |
Grapes ripe on the Assabet for some days. September 8, 1852
Some goldfinches twitter over, while I am pulling down the vines from the birch tops. September 8, 1854
I bring home a half-bushel of grapes to scent my chamber with. September 8, 1854
Gather half my grapes, which for some time have perfumed the house. September 8, 1858
Grapes are turning purple, but are not ripe. September 8, 1859
The witch-hazel on Dwarf Sumach Hill looks as if it would begin to blossom in a day or two. September 8, 1854
Many green-briar leaves are very agreeably thickly spotted now with reddish brown, or fine green on a yellow or green ground, producing a wildly variegated leaf. I have seen nothing more rich. September 8, 1854
Many green-briar leaves are very agreeably thickly spotted now with reddish brown, or fine green on a yellow or green ground, producing a wildly variegated leaf. I have seen nothing more rich. September 8, 1854
Now, while I am gathering grapes, I see them. It excites me to a sort of autumnal madness. My thoughts break out like them, spotted all over, yellow and green and brown. Now for the ripening year! September 8, 1854
I bring home a half-bushel of grapes to scent my chamber with. September 8, 1854
As I paddle home with my basket of grapes in the bow, every now and then their perfume was wafted to me in the stern, and I think that I am passing a richly laden vine on shore. September 8, 1854
Gather half my grapes, which for some time have perfumed the house. September 8, 1858
Grapes are turning purple, but are not ripe. September 8, 1859
*****
August 30, 1853 ("Grapes are already ripe; I smell them first.")
September 13, 1856 ("Up Assabet. Gather quite a parcel of grapes, quite ripe.. . . the best are more admirable for fragrance than for flavor. Depositing them in the bows of the boat, they fill all the air with their fragrance, as we row along against the wind, as if we were rowing through an endless vineyard in its maturity.")
October 9, 1853 ("I smell grapes, . . . their scent is very penetrating and memorable.")
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2015
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
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