“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
I do not remember when
I have taken a sail or
a row on the river
in December.
December 2, 1852
The past December
has been remarkable for
steady cold, or coldness,
and sleighing.
January 2, 1860
I love the shrub oak,
its scanty garment of leaves
whispering to me.
December 1, 1856
Anticipation,
looking through winter to spring,
this melodious air.
At the forest’s edge
silvery needles of the pine
straining the light.
Now for the short days.
Sun behind a low cloud and
the world is darkened.
I see boys skating
but know not when the ice froze.
So busy writing.
As fast as snowflakes
summer was, now winter is.
Nature loves this rhyme
Sun is reflected
from the needles of the pine
with a silvery light.
Dec. 8, 1855
Great winter itself
reflecting rainbow colors
like a precious gem.
December 11, 1855
Night comes on early.
Pine tree tops outlined
against the cold western sky,
December 12, 1859
The low grass and weeds
bent down with crystalline drops
now ready to freeze.
Mist makes near trees more
noticeable, revealing
but one at a time.
December 16, 1855
A dozen or more
tree sparrows flitting though the
edge of the birches.
December 17, 1856
The hard distinct edge
of the western hills now seen
through the clear, cold air.
December 18, 1853
The encircled pond,
chilled by winter's icy grasp
froze over last night.
The icy water
reflecting the warm colors
of the sunset sky.
December 20, 1855
Dark evergreen woods,
these finest days of the year,
days so pure and still.
A narrow line of
yellow rushes lit up by
the westering sun.
A narrow white line
of snow on the storm side of
every exposed tree.
December 23, 1851
December 25.
Full of soft pure light
western sky after sunset,
the outlines of pines.
December 25, 1858
This pure and trackless
road up Brister's Hill tempts us
to start life again.
More snow in the night.
The damp snow covers the panes,
darkening the room.
The fishermen sit,
still catching what they went for,
if not many fish.
December 28, 1856
How admirable that
we can never foresee the
day that is to dawn.
He who studies birds’ nests
looks for them in November
and in the Winter.
December 30 1855
How glorious the
perfect stillness and peace of
the winter landscape!
"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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