Tuesday, November 18, 2025

A Book of the Seasons, Yarrow and Tansy in Autumn


 I would make a chart of our life,
know why just this circle of creatures
 completes the world.
Henry Thoreau, April 18, 1852

I might put by themselves the November flowers, —
flowers which survive severe frosts and the fall of the leaf.

Yarrow and tansy still.
These are cold,
gray days.  

Rounded white petals 
of yarrow above the snow –
perfect, cold and chaste.

October 20 .  Canada snapdragon, tansy, white goldenrod, blue-stemmed goldenrod. Aster undulatus, autumnal dandelion, tall buttercup, yarrow, mayweed. October 20, 1852 

October 23. I notice these flowers still along the railroad causeway: 
  • fresh sprouts from the root of the Solidago nemoralis in bloom,
  • one or two fall dandelions,
  • red clover and white,
  • yarrow, 
  • Trifolium arvense (perhaps not fresh),
  • one small blue snapdragon,
  • fresh tansy in bloom on the sunny sand bank. 

November 3. To-day I see yarrow, very bright.  November 3, 1853

November 3.  Also Aster undulatus is still freshly in bloom; yarrow, etc., etc. November 3, 1858

November 6. Still the Canada snapdragon, yarrow, autumnal dandelion, tansy, shepherd's-purse, silvery cinquefoil, witch-hazel. November 6, 1853

November 9.  Ranunculus repens, Bidens connata (flat in a brook), yarrow, dandelion, autumnal dandelion, tansy, Aster undulatus, etc. November 9, 1852

November 12. Tansy is very fresh still in some places. November 12, 1853

November 14. Still yarrow, tall buttercup, and tansy. November 14, 1852

November 18. Yarrow and tansy still. These are cold, gray days.  November 18, 1852

November 18. Tansy still shows its yellow disks, but yarrow is particularly fresh and perfect, cold and chaste, with its pretty little dry-looking rounded white petals and green leaves. Its very color gives it a right to bloom above the snow, —as level as a snow-crust on the top white ruff.  November 18, 1855

November 19.  Autumnal dandelion quite fresh. Tansy very fresh yesterday. November 19, 1853

November 22. Yarrow is particularly fresh and innocent. November 22, 1853

November 23. Among the flowers which may be put down as lasting thus far, as I remember, in the order of their hardiness: yarrow, tansy (these very fresh and common), cerastium, autumnal dandelion, dandelion, and perhaps tall buttercup, etc., the last four scarce. The following seen within a fortnight: a late three-ribbed goldenrod of some kind, blue-stemmed goldenrod (these two perhaps within a week), Potentilla argentea, Aster undulatus, Ranunculus repens, Bidens connata, shepherd's-purse. November 23, 1852

December 6. Tansy still fresh, and I saw autumnal dandelion a few days since. December 6, 1852

December 12. Tansy still fresh yellow by the Corner Bridge.  December 12, 1852

December 19. Yarrow too is full of seed now. December 19, 1859


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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Thursday, November 13, 2025

A Book of the Seasons, Geese in Autumn


 I would make a chart of our life,
know why just this circle of creatures
completes the world.
Henry Thoreau, April 18, 1852

Few live so far outdoors
as to hear the first geese go over.
September 13, 1859

The sonorous, quavering sounds 
of the geese are the voice of this cloudy air . . .

So they migrate . . . 
from latitude to latitude, from State to State,
steering boldly out into the ocean of the air . . .

Now if ever, then, we may expect a change in the weather. 


Geese in three harrows gradually shift to one – now out of sight.

September 23. When we had put out our bayberry fire, we heard a squawk, and, looking up, saw five geese fly low in the twilight over our heads. We then set out to find our way to Gloucester over the hills, and saw the comet very bright in the northwest. September 23, 1858


October 23. Geese go over Wayland the 17th. October 23, 1858

October 24. A northeast storm, though not much rainfalls to-day, but a fine driving mizzle or “drisk.”  This, as usual, brings the geese, and at 2.30 P. M. I see two flocks go over. I hear that some were seen two or three weeks ago (??), faintly honking. A great many must go over to-day and also alight in this neighborhood. This weather warns them of the approach of winter, and this wind speeds them on their way. October 24, 1858

October 27.  I hear that Sammy Hoar saw geese go over to-day. The fall (strictly speaking) is approaching an end in this probably annual northeast storm. Thus the summer winds up its accounts.  October 27, 1857 

November 8.  A warm, cloudy, rain-threatening morning. About 10 A.M. a long flock of geese are going over from northeast to southwest, or parallel with the general direction of the coast and great mountain-ranges. The sonorous, quavering sounds of the geese are the voice of this cloudy air, – a sound that comes from directly between us and the sky, an aerial sound, and yet so distinct, heavy, and sonorous, a clanking chain drawn through the heavy air. 
I saw through my window some children looking up and pointing their tiny bows into the heavens, and I knew at once that the geese were in the air. It is always an exciting event. The children, instinctively aware of its importance, rushed into the house to tell their parents. 
These travellers are revealed to you by the upward-turned gaze of men. And though these undulating lines are melting into the southwestern sky, the sound comes clear and distinct to you as the clank of a chain in a neighboring stithy. 
So they migrate, not flitting from hedge to hedge, but from latitude to latitude, from State to State, steering boldly out into the ocean of the air. 
It is remarkable how these large objects, so plain when your vision is rightly directed, may be lost in the sky if you look away for a moment, - as hard to hit as a star with a telescope. 
It is a sort of encouraging or soothing sound to assuage their painful fears when they go over a town, as a man moans to deaden a physical pain. The direction of their flight each spring and autumn reminds us inlanders how the coast trends. 
In the afternoon I met Flood, who had just endeavored to draw my attention to a flock of geese in the mizzling air, but encountering me he lost sight of them, while I, at length, looking that way, discerned them, though he could not. 
This was the third flock to-day. Now if ever, then, we may expect a change in the weather. November 8 , 1857 

November 11.  Minott heard geese go over night before last, about 8 P. M. Therien, too, heard them “yelling like anything” over Walden, where he is cutting, the same evening. November 11, 1854

November 13. In mid-forenoon, seventy or eighty geese, in three harrows successively smaller, flying southwest—pretty well west—over the house. A completely overcast, occasionally drizzling forenoon. I at once heard their clangor and rushed to and opened the window. The three harrows were gradually formed into one great one before they were out of sight, the geese shifting their places without slacking their progress. November 13, 1855 

November 13. A large flock of geese go over just before night. November 13, 1858 

November 14. I was remarking to-day to Mr. Rice on the pleasantness of this November thus far, when he remarked that he remembered a similar season fifty-four years ago, and he remembered it because on the 13th of November that year he was engaged in pulling turnips and saw wild geese go over,  when one came to tell him that his father was killed by a bridge giving way . . . Minott hears geese to-day.  November 14, 1855
 
November 14. This morning it was considerably colder than for a long time, and by noon very much colder than heretofore, with a pretty strong northerly wind. The principal flight of geese was November 8th, so that the bulk of them preceded this cold turn five days.  November 14, 1857  

November 17

November 18. Sixty geese go over the Great Fields, in one waving line, broken from time to time by their crowding on each other and vainly endeavoring to form into a harrow, honking all the while.  November 18, 1854

November 19. Speaking of geese, [Minott]says that Dr. Hurd told a tough story once. He said that when he went out to the well there came a flock of geese flying so low that they had to rise to clear the well-sweep. M. says that there used to be a great many more geese formerly; he used to hear a great many flocks in a day go "yelling" over. November 19, 1855

November 20. Minott said he heard geese going south at day break the 17th, before he came out of the house, and heard and saw another large flock at 10 A. M. Those I heard this afternoon were low and far in the western horizon. I did [not] distinctly see them, but heard them farther and farther in the southwest, the sound of one which did the honking guiding my eyes. I had seen that a storm was brewing before, and low mists already gathered in the northeast. It rained soon after I got home. The 18th was also a drizzling day. Methinks the geese are wont to go south just before a storm, and, in the spring, to go north just after one, say at the end of a long April storm.  November 20, 1853

November 22. Geese went over yesterday, and to-day also.   November 22, 1853

November 23.  At 5 P. M. I saw, flying southwest high overhead, a flock of geese, and heard the faint honking of one or two. They were in the usual harrow form, twelve in the shorter line and twenty four in the longer, the latter abutting on the former at the fourth bird from the front. I judged hastily that the interval between the geese was about double their alar extent, and, as the last is, according to Wilson, five feet and two inches, the former may safely be called eight feet. I hear they were fired at with a rifle from Bunker Hill the other day.   This is the sixth flock I have seen or heard of since the morning of the 17th , i. e. within a week.  November 23, 1853  

November 24. Geese went over on the 13th and 14th, on the 17th the first snow fell, and the 19th it began to be cold and blustering. November 24, 1855 

November 25.  At Walden. — I hear at sundown what I mistake for the squawking of a hen —  but it for proved to be a flock of wild geese going south.  November 25, 1852 

 November 27. The principal flight of geese is said to have been a few days before the 24th. I have seen none. November 27, 1859

November 30. A still, warm, cloudy, rain-threatening day. The air is full of geese. I saw five flocks within an hour, about 10 A. M., containing from thirty to fifty each, and afterward two more flocks, making in all from two hundred and fifty to three hundred at least, all flying southwest over Goose and Walden Ponds. The former was apparently well named Goose Pond. You first hear a faint honking from one or two in the northeast and think there are but few wandering there, but, looking up, see forty or fifty coming on in a more or less broken harrow, wedging their way southwest. I suspect they honk more, at any rate they are more broken and alarmed, when passing over a village, and are seen falling into their ranks again, assuming the perfect harrow form. Hearing only one or two honking, even for the seventh time, you think there are but few till you see them. According to my calculation a thousand or fifteen hundred may have gone over Concord to-day. When they fly low and near, they look very black against the sky. November 30, 1857 

December 1.  I hear of two more flocks of geese going over to-day. December 1, 1857 

December 6. 10 P. M. — Hear geese going over. December 6, 1855 

December 15. Saw a small flock of geese go over. December 15, 1852


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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Sunday, November 2, 2025

A Book of the Seasons: November Days II

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



November
whose name sounds so bleak and cheerless.
Perhaps its harvest of thought
is worth more than all the other crops of the year.

November.
The month of withered leaves
and bare twigs and limbs.

November.
The landscape prepared for winter,
without snow.

November.
In the clear, white, leafless twilight
the bare branches of the oak woods
await the onset of the wind.

November.
Now a man will eat his heart,
now while the earth is bare,
barren and cheerless.

November.
The coldness of winter
without the variety
of ice and snow;

but

How bright the November stars!

November!
.
The bare, bleak, hard, and
barren-looking  tawny pastures.
The firm outline of the hills.
 The air so bracing and wholesome.
Still man beholds the inaccessible beauty around him
It is glorious November weather,
and only November fruits are out.
.

***


Crows fly southwest in
a very long straggling flock.
I see neither end.
November 1, 1853

We come home in the
autumn twilight; clear white light
penetrates the woods.
November 2, 1853

Sailing past the bank
just before a clear sundown--
my second shadow!

Bare limbs and twigs,
a ripple on the river,
cool northerly wind.
November 3, 1852

All this is distinct
to an observant eye, yet
unnoticed by most.
November 3, 1861

A few small hemlocks
remind me of snows to come.
Shelter for the birds.
November 4, 1851

In the natural state
when given sufficient time
each knows its own place.
November 5, 1860

Remarkable how
little we attend to what
passes before us.
November 6, 1853

A clear cold morning.
I walk with hands in pockets.
The sun far southward.
November 7, 1853

The notes of small birds
like a nail on an anvil
in now leafless woods.
November 7, 1853

The view contracted,
my world and life simplified
by the misty rain.

Though she works slowly,
she has much time to work in.
Nature perseveres.
November 8, 1860

What has become of
Nature when the mud puddles
reflect skies and trees?
November 9, 1851


Grand natural features,
waving woods and huge boulders,
are not on the map.
November 10, 1860

Apples are frozen
on the trees and rattle like
stones in my pocket.
November 11, 1853

A bright, but cold day,
One must next wear gloves,
hands' winter quarters.
November 11, 1851

Awake or dreaming
are we not always living
the life we imagine?
November 12, 1859

Little birds peck at
white birch catkins and fly off
with a  jingling sound.
November 13, 1852

October light fades
into the clear, white, leafless,
November twilight.
November 14, 1853

I see a lichen
on a rock in a meadow,
a perfect circle.
November 15, 1850

I now take notice
of the green polypody
and the other ferns.
November 16, 1853

Andromeda swamp
 a glowing warm brown red
looking toward the sun.
November 17, 1859

Rejoice for this world
where owls live, the infinite
roominess of nature.
November 18, 1851

Indian summer --
Has it not fine calm spring days
answering to it?
November 19, 1853

The sparkling white light
reflected from all surfaces.
November glory.
November 20, 1858

These forms and colors
so adapted to my eye
cannot be improved.
November 21, 1850

I am made to love
the pond and  meadow as wind
to ripple water.
November 21, 1850

November's bare, bleak,
inaccessible beauty
seen through a clear air.
November 22, 1860

The new-fallen snow
seen lying just as it fell
on the twigs and leaves.
November 23, 1852

Clear and freezing cold,
the beginning of winter.
Ice forms in my boat.
November 24, 1853

This clear cold water
is as empty as the air.
I see no fishes.
November 25, 1859

Faint creak of a limb
heard in this oak wood is the
note of a nuthatch.


The bare, barren earth
cheerless without ice and snow.   
But how bright the stars.

These November days
twilight makes so large a part
of the afternoon.


Flock of snow buntings
 concealed in a stubble-field,
not yet very white,
November 29, 1859

The sparkling windows
and vanes of the village seen
against the mountains.
November 30, 1852
***
November

Much cold, slate-colored cloud,
bare twigs seen gleaming toward the light like gossamer,
 pure green of pines whose old leaves have fallen,
reddish or yellowish brown oak leaves rustling on the hillsides,
very pale brown, bleaching,
almost hoary fine grass or hay in the fields,
akin to the frost which has killed it,
and flakes of clear yellow sunlight
 falling on it here and there,
 — such is November.
The sunlight is a peculiarly thin and clear yellow,
falling on the pale-brown bleaching herbage of the fields at this season. ...
This is November sunlight.


Call these November Lights. 
Hers is a cool, silvery light. 
In November consider
 the sharp, dry rustle of withered leaves; 
the cool, silvery, and shimmering gleams of light, [and]
 the fresh bright buds formed and exposed along the twigs.
October 25, 1858

The glory of November is in its silvery, sparkling lights.

See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, November Days I 


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A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, November Days II

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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