December 6, 2024
I see boys skating
but know not when the ice froze.
So busy writing.
Some plants are now seen
more simply and distinctly
and to advantage.
The mist is so thick
even the reflected mist
now veils the hillsides.
For we are hunters
pursuing the summer on
our snow-shoes and skates
all winter long.
There is really but
one season in our hearts.
December 6, 1856
The dripping trees and
wet falling ice will wet you
like rain in the woods.
December 6, 1858
Looking at a dripping tree
between you and the sun
you may see here or there
one or another rainbow color
a small brilliant point of light.
December 6, 1858
Bare shrubs are sprinkled
with buds -- greens and salads for
the birds and rabbits.
December 6, 1856
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 © 2009-2019
No comments:
Post a Comment