Another red sun
of dry and dusty weather –
red helianthus.
I hear the anxious
peep of a robin whose young
have just left the nest.
Each year men talk as
if dry weather now begun
were unexpected.
We often walk between
drops of rain falling thinly
without knowing it.
The window open,
a burst of melody pours
into my slumber.
The tumultuous singing of birds, a burst of melody, wakes me up (the window being open) these mornings at dawn. What a matinade to have poured into your slumber! June 18, 1860
Almost all birds appear to join the early morning chorus before sunrise on the roost, the matin hymn. I hear now the robin, the chip-bird, the blackbird, the martin, etc., etc., but I see none flying, or, at last, only one wing in the air, not yet illustrated by the sun. June 18, 1853
Every year men talk about the dry weather which has now begun as if it were something new and not to be expected. June 18, 1854
Every year men talk about the dry weather which has now begun as if it were something new and not to be expected. June 18, 1854
I think I heard the anxious peep of a robin whose young have just left the nest. June 18, 1854
Another round red sun of dry and dusty weather to-night, — a red or red-purple helianthus. June 18, 1854
We no doubt often walk between drops of rain falling thinly, without knowing it, though if on the water we should have been advertised of it. June 18, 1859
The surface of the stream betrays every drop from the first to the last, and all the variations of the storm, so much more expressive is the water than the comparatively brutish face of earth. June 18, 1859
I hear a man playing a clarionet far off. June 18, 1852
I hear a man playing a clarionet far off. June 18, 1852
Moon not quite full. The western sky is now a crescent of saffron inclining to salmon, a little dunnish, perhaps. The grass is wet with dew. The evening star has come out, but no other. There is no wind. I see a nighthawk in the twilight, flitting near the ground. June 18, 1853
Of what consequence whether I stand on London bridge for the next century, or look into the depths of this bubbling spring which I have laid open with my hoe? June 18, 1840
June 18, 2013
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, June 18
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 © 2009-2020
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