April 3.
April 3, 2021
They call that northernmost sea, thought to be free from ice, “Polina," — whither the musk oxen migrate. The coldest natures, persevere with them, go far enough, are found to have open sea in the highest latitudes.
It is a clear day with a cold westerly wind, the snow of yesterday being melted.
When the sun shines unobstructedly the landscape is full of light, for it is reflected from the withered fawn-colored grass, as it can not be from the green grass of summer. (On the back of the hill behind Gourgas'.)
The bluebird carries the sky on his back.
I am going over the hills in the rear of the windmill site and along Peter's path. This path through the rolling stubble-fields, with the woods rather distant and the horizon distant in front on account of the intervention of the river and meadow, reminds me a little of the downs of Cape Cod, of the Plains of Nauset. This is the only walk of the kind that we have in Concord. Perhaps it should be called Cæsar's Path.
The maple at the brook by this path has not expanded its buds, though that by the Red Bridge had so long ago. What the cause? Are they different species?
I have observed much snow lately on the north slopes where shrub oaks grow; where probably the ground is frozen, more snow, I think, than lies in the woods in such positions. It is even two or three feet deep in many such places, though few villagers would believe it.
One side of the village street, which runs east and west, appears a month in advance of the other. I go down the street on the wintry side; I return through summer.
How agreeable the contrasts of light and shade, especially when the successive swells of a hill side produce the shade!
One side of the village street, which runs east and west, appears a month in advance of the other. I go down the street on the wintry side; I return through summer.
How agreeable the contrasts of light and shade, especially when the successive swells of a hill side produce the shade!
The clouds are important to-day for their shadows. If it were not for them, the landscape would be one glare of light without variety. By their motion they still more vary the scene.
Man's eye is so placed as to look straight forward on a level best, or rather down than up. His eye demands the sober colors of the earth for its daily diet. He does not look up at a great angle but with an effort.
Many clouds go over without our noticing them, for it would not profit us much to notice it, but few cattle pass by in the street or the field without our knowing it.
The moon appears to be full to-night.
About 8.30 P. M. I walked to the Clamshell Hill. It is very cold and windy, and I miss my gloves, left at home. Colder than the last moon.
The sky is two-thirds covered with great four or more sided downy clouds, drifting from the north or northwest, with dark-blue partitions between them. The moon, with a small brassy halo, seems travelling ever through them toward the north.
The water is dull and dark, except close to the windward shore, where there is a smooth strip a rod or more in width protected from the wind, which reflects a faint light. When the moon reaches a clear space, the water is suddenly lit up quite across the meadows, for half a mile in length and several rods in width, while the woods beyond are thrown more into the shade, or seen more in a mass and indistinctly, than before.
The ripples on the river, seen in the moonlight, those between the sunken willow lines, have the arc of a circle, as if their extremities were retarded by the friction of the banks.
I noticed this afternoon that bank below Cæsar's, now partially flooded, higher than the neighboring meadow, so that sometimes you can walk down on it a mile dry shod with water on both sides of you. Like the banks of the Mississippi.
There always appears to be something phosphorescent in moonlight reflected from water.
Venus is very bright now in the west, and Orion is there, too, now.
I came out mainly to see the light of the moon reflected from the meadowy flood. It is a pathway of light, of sheeny ripples, extending across the meadow toward the moon, consisting of a myriad little bent and broken moons.
I hear one faint peep bird on its roost.
The clouds are travelling very fast into the south. I would not have believed the heavens could be cleared so soon. They consist of irregularly margined, wide whitish bars, apparently converging, rendezvousing, toward one point far in the south horizon. Like the columns of a host in the sky, each being conducted by its own leader to one rendezvous in the southern heavens.
Such is the illusion, for we are deceived when we look up at this concave sphere, as when we look on a plane map representing the convex globe, --not by Mercator's projection.
But what a grand incident of the night — though hardly a night passes without many such — that, between the hours of nine and ten, a battalion of downy clouds many miles in length and several in width were observed sailing noiselessly like a fleet from north to south over land and water, town and cottage, at the height of half a dozen miles above the earth! Over woods and over villages they swept along, intercepting the light of the moon, and yet perchance no man observed them.
Now they are all gone.
The sky is left clear and cold and but thinly peopled at this season. It is of a very light blue in all the horizon, but darker in the zenith, darkest of all in the crevice between two downy clouds. It is particularly light in the western horizon. Who knows but light is reflected from snow lying on the ground further inland?
Man's eye is so placed as to look straight forward on a level best, or rather down than up. His eye demands the sober colors of the earth for its daily diet. He does not look up at a great angle but with an effort.
Many clouds go over without our noticing them, for it would not profit us much to notice it, but few cattle pass by in the street or the field without our knowing it.
The moon appears to be full to-night.
About 8.30 P. M. I walked to the Clamshell Hill. It is very cold and windy, and I miss my gloves, left at home. Colder than the last moon.
The sky is two-thirds covered with great four or more sided downy clouds, drifting from the north or northwest, with dark-blue partitions between them. The moon, with a small brassy halo, seems travelling ever through them toward the north.
The water is dull and dark, except close to the windward shore, where there is a smooth strip a rod or more in width protected from the wind, which reflects a faint light. When the moon reaches a clear space, the water is suddenly lit up quite across the meadows, for half a mile in length and several rods in width, while the woods beyond are thrown more into the shade, or seen more in a mass and indistinctly, than before.
The ripples on the river, seen in the moonlight, those between the sunken willow lines, have the arc of a circle, as if their extremities were retarded by the friction of the banks.
I noticed this afternoon that bank below Cæsar's, now partially flooded, higher than the neighboring meadow, so that sometimes you can walk down on it a mile dry shod with water on both sides of you. Like the banks of the Mississippi.
There always appears to be something phosphorescent in moonlight reflected from water.
Venus is very bright now in the west, and Orion is there, too, now.
I came out mainly to see the light of the moon reflected from the meadowy flood. It is a pathway of light, of sheeny ripples, extending across the meadow toward the moon, consisting of a myriad little bent and broken moons.
I hear one faint peep bird on its roost.
The clouds are travelling very fast into the south. I would not have believed the heavens could be cleared so soon. They consist of irregularly margined, wide whitish bars, apparently converging, rendezvousing, toward one point far in the south horizon. Like the columns of a host in the sky, each being conducted by its own leader to one rendezvous in the southern heavens.
Such is the illusion, for we are deceived when we look up at this concave sphere, as when we look on a plane map representing the convex globe, --not by Mercator's projection.
But what a grand incident of the night — though hardly a night passes without many such — that, between the hours of nine and ten, a battalion of downy clouds many miles in length and several in width were observed sailing noiselessly like a fleet from north to south over land and water, town and cottage, at the height of half a dozen miles above the earth! Over woods and over villages they swept along, intercepting the light of the moon, and yet perchance no man observed them.
Now they are all gone.
The sky is left clear and cold and but thinly peopled at this season. It is of a very light blue in all the horizon, but darker in the zenith, darkest of all in the crevice between two downy clouds. It is particularly light in the western horizon. Who knows but light is reflected from snow lying on the ground further inland?
The water, as I look at it in the north or northeast, is a very dark blue, the moon being on my right; afterwards, crossing the railroad bridge, is a deep sea-green.
The evenings are now much shortened, suggesting that ours is to be henceforth a daylight life.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 3, 1852
The evenings are now much shortened, suggesting that ours is to be henceforth a daylight life.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 3, 1852
There always appears to be something phosphorescent in moonlight reflected from water. See June 13, 2011 ("I am startled to see midway in the dark water a bright flame-like, more than phosphorescent light crowning the crests of the wavelets. Though one would have said they were of an intenser light than the moon herself, . . . I see this is so many broken reflections of the moon's disk.")
A pathway of light, of sheeny ripples, extending across the meadow toward the moon, consisting of a myriad little bent and broken moons. See June 13, 1851 ("I see the moon's inverted pyramid of light shimmering on its surface.. . . which, in fact, is made up of a myriad little mirrors reflecting the disk of the moon.") See also Dogen:
~ Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken Although its light is wide and great, the moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide. The whole moon and the entire sky are reflected in dewdrops on the grass, or even in one drop of water. Enlightenment does not divide you, just as the moon does not break the water. You cannot hinder enlightenment, just as a drop of water does not hinder the moon in the sky. The depth of the drop is the height of the moon. Each reflection, however long or short its duration, manifests the vastness of the dewdrop, and realizes the limitlessness of the moonlight in the sky . ~
The sky is of a very light blue in all the horizon, but darker in the zenith, See February 4, 1852 ("Coming home through the village by this full moonlight, . . . the sky is the most glorious blue I ever beheld, even a light blue on some sides, as if I actually saw into day.")
The water, as I look at it in the north or northeast, is a very dark blue, afterwards, crossing the railroad bridge, is a deep sea-green. See April 3, 1853 ("Looking up the river yesterday, in a direction opposite to the sun, not long before it set, the water was of a rich, dark blue — while looking at it in a direction diagonal to this, i. e. northeast, it was nearly slate-colored.")
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
No comments:
Post a Comment