A year is made up of
a certain series and number
of sensations and thoughts
which have their language in nature.
Henry Thoreau, June 6, 1857
We have poetry -
flowers and the song of birds
before woods leaf out.
May 1, 1852
Off and up they go
high into the clear blue deeps.
The flight of the leaves.
May 1, 1859
One frog begins then
the whole pond joins in until
all stop together.
Little peeping frogs
make a sound you do not hear
unless you attend.
The bright blue river.
The bright blue river,
the fresh yellow green meadow,
the green river grass –
these several colors
are as distinct and simple
as a child's painting.
The peculiarly
beautiful, clean and tender
green of the grass there.
May 5, 1853
Cranberry patches
lit by the sun in the swamp,
beautiful crimson.
May 5, 1855
The willows are now
suddenly a tender fresh
light yellowish-green.
May 6, 1852
First wave of summer
from the south. Before the leaves,
birds people the trees.
May 7, 1852
At horizon's edge,
the sun just disappearing,
mountains deeper blue.
May 7, 1854
If man is thankful
for this serene and warm day,
more so the flowers.
May 7, 1854
A fit place for owls,
thick woods over white spruce swamp
where bog laurel grows.
May 7, 1855
Immortal water
strange to us forever
sparkling with life.
May 8, 1854
Quails in the stubble
in G. M. Barrett’s orchard
go off partridge-like.
May 9, 1855
Sitting by the shore
this still cloudy thoughtful day
counting frog noses.
Shad-bush in blossom
seen afar amid gray twigs
before its own leaves.
While I sit by the spring
How many little warblers
now busy about the opening buds
as much a part of the tree
as its blossoms and leaves
they come and give it voice –
its twigs feel with pleasure
their little feet.
The rain is over.
There is a bow in the east.
The earth is refreshed.
Sounds of the deep woods
as partridge, red-tailed hawks and
owls sit on their nests.
May 12, 1855
The sugar maple
blossoms on the commons
resound with bees.
May 12, 1860
The fields are green now
all beautiful in the rain
covered with clear drops.
The woods freshest most
radiant, blooming beauty.
Walking in the rain.
May 13, 1852
I doubt if we shall
at any season hear more
birds singing than now.
May 13, 1855
The meadows are lit,
tender yellow green willows,
elms' silver green fruit.
May 13, 1855
We float down river
through the still and hazy air
and June-like warmth.
May 13, 1855
The willow blossoms
fill the air with a sweet scent
Ah! willow willow!
The sounds and sights of
birds and flowers heard and seen
when they are fewest.
Their leaves just open,
hickories make quite a show:
red inner bud-scales.
Deciduous trees
are now a mist of leaflets
against the dark pines.
So clear bright and fresh
the whole earth is one flower,
a fragrant bouquet.
How bright the new world,
how fresh and full of promise
after the May storm.
May 17 1852
Soft rippling sound
near aspen at the island,
first fluttering leaves.
May 17, 1860
Sunny yellow-green
light and life in the landscape,
this beautiful world.
Shadows sweep over
the waving meadow grasses,
bright fair weather clouds.
May 19, 1860
Now is the time for
bright and breezy days blowing
off apple blossoms.
May 20, 1854
Their leaves like flowers
the birches by the railroad
flash yellow on me.
The springing foliage
lighting up the landscape like
sunlight on the woods.
Pee-a-wee, Pee-oo.
In the woods behind the spring
a wood pewee sings.
The morning comes in
and awakens me early.
A window open.
Loud very rich song,
black head, rose breast white beneath:
Rose-breasted Grosbeak.
Winter recedes in
memory by many degrees
this season of grass
luxuriant growth
vibrating motion and light
now everywhere green
such bountifulness
suggests the harvest and fall –
seasons' rapid whirl.
Wading through this white
spruce swamp just to look at leaves:
Kalmia glauca!
May 26, 1855
I hold a wood frog
the color of a dead leaf,
perfectly frog-like.
Bountiful clear red
huckleberries now blossom,
so full of promise.
May 28, 1854
We sit by the path
in the depths of the woods now
while the wood thrush sings.
May 28, 1855
The white maple keys
fall and float down the stream like
wings of great insects.
Strong lights and shades now.
It is a day of shadows,
the leaves have so grown.
The voice of the toad
first heard a month ago sounds
differently now.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, May Days
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 © 2009-2025
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