(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
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
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