A Book of the Seasons: June 21.

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

June 21.

June 21. 2021

The deep scarlet of

the wild moss rose, half open,

glowing in the grass.

June 21, 1854

a yellow rose 

almost hidden 

in deep grass 

Issa

The perception of beauty is a moral test. June 21, 1852

That solitude was sweet to me as a flower. June 21, 1857

Nature has looked uncommonly bare and dry to me for a day or two . . . all at once I did not know what had attracted me all my life. I was therefore encouraged when, going through a field this evening, I was unexpectedly struck with the beauty of an apple tree. June 21, 1852

Again I am attracted by the deep scarlet of the wild moss rose half open in the grass, all glowing with rosy light. June 21, 1854

June 21, 2013

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Serene as the Sky.

If you make the least correct 

observation of nature this year,

 you will have occasion to repeat it

 with illustrations the next, 

and the season and life itself is prolonged.

  April 7, 1853 

June 20 <<<<< June 21 >>>>>   June 22

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, June 21

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 ©  2009-2022