Last night the pond froze
over entirely yet not
safe to walk upon.
Pine needles drooping
like wet feathers frozen
by the sleety snow.
December 23, 1850
A narrow white line
of snow on the storm side of
every exposed tree.
December 22, 2017
The pond froze over last night entirely for the first time, yet so as not to be safe to walk upon. December 23, 1845
Here is an old-fashioned snow-storm. There is not much passing on railroads. The engineer says it is three feet deep above. There is no track on the Walden road. A traveller might cross it in the woods and not be sure it was a road. December 23, 1850
The Great Meadows are more than half covered with ice, and now I see that there was a very slight fall of snow last night. December 23, 1859
By half past three the sun is fairly out. I go to the Cliffs. There is a narrow ridge of snow, a white line, on the storm side of the stem of every exposed tree. December 23, 1851
The snow-storm is over, the clouds have departed, the sun shines serenely, the air is still, a pure and trackless white napkin covers the ground, and a fair evening is coming to conclude all. December 23, 1851
I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red . . . and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon. December 23, 1851
December 23, 2021
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| December 23, 2018 |
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 © 2009-2017
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