Yesterday's ice storm today.

(Yesterday it froze as it fell on my umbrella

 converting the cotton cloth into a thick stiff glazed sort of oilcloth 

so that it was impossible to shut it.)

9 A.M.

Out to see the glaze 

now half fallen    melting off --

the dripping trees and

falling ice wets you

like rain in the woods. It is

a lively sound busy

tinkling incessant

brattling and from time to time

a rushing crashing

falling ice of trees

suddenly erecting when

relieved of their loads. 

Look at this dripping

tree between you and the sun

you may see here there

one or another

rainbow color -- a small

brilliant point of light. 

Henry Thoreau

December 6, 1858

tinyurl.com/HDT581206

December 6. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, December 6

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 © 2009-2023

Yesterday's ice storm today.

The Steam of the Engine (a poet's account of a steam-engine*)

The engine's steam

stretches low over the earth

enveloping the cars.

Henry Thoreau, December 3, 1856

December 4, 2017

February 16. The fog is so thick we cannot see the engine till it is almost upon us, and then its own steam, hugging the earth, greatly increases the mist. February 16, 1855

April 4. Rains all day. The steam-cloud from the engine rises but slowly in such an atmosphere, and makes a small angle with the earth. It is low, perhaps, for the same reason that the clouds are. April 4, 1853

June 9.  The steam of the engine streaming far behind is regularly divided, as if it were the vertebræ of a serpent, probably by the strokes of the piston. June 9, 1853

August 17.  Cannot distinguish the steam of the engine toward Waltham from one of the morning fogs over hollows in woods. August 17, 1852

November 23.  The mist so low is clouds close to the ground, and the steam of the engine hugs the earth in the Cut, concealing all objects for a great distance. November 23, 1852

December 3. The steam of the locomotive stretches low over the earth, enveloping the cars. December 3, 1856

December  18. The steam of the engine hugs the earth very close. Is it because it [is] a very clear, cold day?  December 18, 1856

December 29 . In the clear atmosphere I see, far in the eastern horizon, the steam from the steam-engine, like downy clouds above the woods. December 29, 1851

January 3.  When a locomotive came in, just before the sun set, I saw a small cloud blown away from it which was a very rare but distinct violet purple.   January 3, 1860

January 13.  A few clouds are floating overhead, downy and dark. Clear sky and bright sun. I see a long, light-textured cloud stretching from north to south, stretching over half the heavens; and underneath it, in the west, flitting mother-o'-pearl clouds, which change their loose-textured form and melt rapidly away, even while I write. Before I can complete this sentence, I look up and they are gone, like  the steam from the engine in the winter air.  January 13, 1852

January 24.  I see a faint bluish tinge in the ruts. but it is warmer and there is a snow-bearing cloud over all. When the cars passed, I being on the pond ( Walden)  the sun was setting and suffusing the clouds far and near with rosy light  Even the steam from the engine  as its flocks or wreaths rose above the shadow of the woods, became a rosy cloud even fairer than the rest  but it was soon dissipated. January 24, 1852

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Steam of the Engine

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 ©  2009-2023

*A poet's account of a steam-engine. See December 25, 1851 ("I, standing twenty miles off, see a crimson cloud in the horizon.You tell me it is a mass of vapor which absorbs all other rays and reflects the red, but that is nothing to the purpose, for this red vision excites me, stirs my blood, makes my thoughts flow, and I have new and indescribable fancies, and you have not touched the secret of that influence.  If there is not something mystical in your explanation, something unexplainable to the understanding, some elements of mystery, it is quite insufficient –– that is not the way it speaks to the imagination, and that is not the account which the imagination gives of it. Just as inadequate to a pure mechanic would be a poet's account of a steam-engine.")