 December 15, 2018 |
The bare landscape looks
as if covered with snow on
these bright moonlit nights.
How interesting a few clean, dry weeds on the shore a dozen rods off, seen distinctly against the smooth, reflecting water between ice! December 15, 1854
The low grass and weeds, bent down with a myriad little crystalline drops, ready to be frozen perhaps, are very interesting, but wet my feet through very soon. A steady but gentle, warm rain. December 15, 1855
I still recall to mind that characteristic winter eve of December 9th; the cold, dry, and wholesome diet my mind and senses necessarily fed on, —
- · oak leaves, bleached and withered weeds that rose above the snow,
- · the now dark green of the pines, and
- · perchance the faint metallic chip of a single tree sparrow;
- · the hushed stillness of the wood at sundown, aye, all the winter day;
- · the short boreal twilight;
- · the smooth serenity and the reflections of the pond, still alone free from ice;
- · the melodious hooting of the owl, heard at the same time with
- the yet more distant whistle of a locomotive,. . .
- · the last strokes of the woodchopper,
- who presently bends his steps homeward;
- · the gilded bar of cloud across the apparent outlet of the pond,
- conducting my thoughts into the eternal west;
- · the deepening horizon glow; and
- · the hasty walk homeward to enjoy the long winter evening.
December 15, 1856
The now dark green pines.
The oak leaves and withered weeds
bleached above the snow.
The hushed stillness of
the wood at sundown, aye
all the winter day.
Smooth serenity
and reflections of the pond,
alone free from ice.
Hooting of the owl
with the distant whistle of
a locomotive.
The last strokes of the
woodchopper who presently
bends his steps homeward.
Gilded bar of cloud
conducting my thoughts into
the eternal west.
The horizon glow,
and the hasty walk homeward.
Long winter evening.
The first kind of snow-storm, or that of yesterday, which ceased in the night after some three inches had fallen, was that kind that makes handsome drifts behind the walls. December 15, 1859
The kind of snow-storm
at night that makes handsome
drifts behind the walls
The trees have come down to the bank to see the river go by. December 15, 1841
All the trees have now
come down to the bank to see
the river go by
This old, familiar river is renewed each instant; only the channel is the same. December 15, 1841
This old, familiar river is renewed each instant; only the channel is the same. December 15, 1841
each instant renews
this old, familiar river
in the same channel
The water which so calmly reflects the fleeting clouds and the primeval trees I have never seen before. December 15, 1841
The water I have
never seen before calmly
reflects fleeting clouds
My love is invulnerable. Meet me on that ground, and you will find me strong. December 15, 1841
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 © 2009-2016
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