A Book of the Seasons: January 31.

The year is but a succession of days,

and I see that I could assign some office to each day

which, summed up, would be the history of the year.

Henry Thoreau, August 24, 1852

January 31

Clear mild winter day.

The sun's warmth now prevails and

is felt on the back.

January 31, 1854

Clear mild winter day,

the warmth of the sun prevails.

Snow softens and melts.

January 31, 1854

A  southerly wind

and now the warmth of the sun

is felt on the back.

January 31, 1854

But I do not melt; 

there is no thaw in me; 

I am bound out still.

January 31, 1854

A small pitch pine with

more than a hundred cones of

different ages.

January 31, 1860

It is a beautiful clear and mild winter day. January 31, 1854

A clear, cold, beautiful day  January 31, 1855 

The wind is more southerly, and now the warmth of the sun prevails, and is felt on the back. The snow softens and melts.  January 31, 1854

the sun is ready to do his part, and let the wind be right, and it will be warm and pleasant-like, at least now that the sun runs so high a course. January 31, 1854

We too have our thaws. They come to our January moods, when our ice cracks, and our sluices break loose. Thought that was frozen up under stern experience gushes forth in feeling and expression. There is a freshet which carries away dams of accumulated ice.  January 31, 1854

But I do not melt; there is no thaw in me; I am bound out still. January 31, 1854

Saw one faint tinge of red on red ice pond-hole, six inches over. January 31, 1858

*****

A Book of the Seasons, The Pitch Pine in Winter

*****

 

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 © 2009-2021