The deep-sunk yellow
and decayed pads, the bleared, dulled,
drowned eyes of summer.
November's bare bleak
inaccessible beauty
seen through a clear air.
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November 22, 2015 November 17, 2017 This is a very beautiful November day, – a cool but clear, crystalline air. November 22, 1860 Summer is gone with all its infinite wealth, and still nature is genial to man. November 22, 1860 Still he beholds the same inaccessible beauty around him. November 22, 1860 I rejoice in the bare, bleak, hard, and barren-looking surface of the tawny pastures, the firm outline of the hills, and the air so bracing and wholesome. November 22, 1860  Simply to see to a distant horizon through a clear air, - the fine outline of a distant hill or a blue mountain- top through some new vista, - this is wealth enough for one afternoon. November 22, 1860 The light of the setting sun, just emerged from a cloud and suddenly falling on and lighting up the needles of the white pine between you and it, after a raw and louring afternoon near the beginning of winter, is a memorable phenomenon. November 22, 1851 Though you are finger-cold toward night, and you cast a stone on to your first ice, and see the unmelted crystals under every bank, it is glorious November weather, and only November fruits are out. November 22, 1860 ***** |
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 © 2009-2015
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