Sunday, January 26, 2020

A Book of the Seasons: DECEMBER


“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.

Little tree sparrow
made to withstand the winter,
perched on a white birch.
December 4, 1856














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












It often happens
 as the weather is harder
 the sky seems softer.

I hardly get out
a couple of miles before
the sun is setting.
December 10 1856













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













And now i first take
that peculiar winter walk.
Sky under my feet.


The open river,
 smooth mirror in icy frame
full of reflections.

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











It always melts
and freezes at the same time
when icicles form.



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 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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