To gaze in any direction and see with new pleasure to distant hillsides and farmhouses and to the mountains in the horizon.

August 30

Another great fog this morning, which lasts till 8.30. After so much dry and warm weather, cool weather has suddenly come, and this has produced these two larger fogs than for a long time.

August 30, 2013

The clearness of the air makes it delicious to gaze in any direction. Though there has been no rain, the valleys are emptied of haze, and I see with new pleasure to distant hillsides and farmhouses and a river-reach shining in the sun, and to the mountains in the horizon. Coolness and clarity go together.

I go along through J. Hosmer's meadow near the river, it is so dry. I walk dry-shod quite to the phalanxes of bulrushes of a handsome blue-green glaucous color. The colors of the rainbow rush are now pretty bright. 

Blue-eyed grass still. Dogwood leaves have fairly begun to turn. A few small maples are scarlet along the meadow. 

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 30, 1854

The valleys are emptied of haze, and I see with new pleasure to distant hillsides and farmhouses and a river-reach shining in the sun, and to the mountains in the horizon. See August 25, 1854 (“I think I never saw the haze so thick as now . . . The sun is shorn of his beams by the haze before 5 o'clock P.M., round and red, and is soon completely concealed, apparently by the haze alone.”); August 22, 1854 (“The haze, accompanied by much wind, is so thick this forenoon that the sun is obscured as by a cloud. I see no rays of sunlight.. . . The haze is so thick that we can hardly see more than a mile.”); August 19, 1854 (“There is such a haze we see not further than our Annursnack, which is blue as a mountain.”); August 13, 1854 ("Now the mountains are concealed by the dog-day haze.”)

Blue-eyed grass still. See See A Book of the Seasons, blue-eyed grass

August 30. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 30

Coolness 

and clarity 

go together

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Coolness and clarity go together.

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-540830

After the rain. Clear mind, infinite horizons.

June 26

June 26. 

At Cliffs. – The air is warmer, but wonderfully clear after the hail-storm. I do not remember when I have seen it more clear. 

The mountains and horizon outlines on all sides are distinct and near. Nobscot has lost all its blue, and the northwest mountains are too firmly defined to be mistaken for clouds. I see new spires far in the south, and on every side the horizon is extended many miles. 

Where I had seen or fancied only a hazy forest outline, I see successive swelling hills and remote towns. It expands me to look so much farther over the rolling surface of the earth.

So often to the luxurious and hazy summer in our minds, some chilling cloud comes over. But when it is gone, we are surprised to find that it has cleared the air; summer returns without its haze. We see infinitely further into the horizon on every side, and the boundaries of the world are enlarged.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal,  June 26, 1853


It has cleared the air; summer returns without its haze. We see infinitely further into the horizon on every side, and the boundaries of the world are enlarged. See June 26, 1854 ("The peculiar agreeable dark shade of June, a clear air, and bluish light on the grass and bright silvery light reflected from fresh green leaves."); June 23, 1854 (“The air is beautifully clear, showing the glossy and light-reflecting greenness of the woods. It is a great relief to look into the horizon. There is more room under the heavens”); June 23, 1852 (“ It is an agreeably cool and clear and breezy day, when all things appear as if washed bright and shine . . . You can see far into the horizon.”)


Fishing for the pond.

Fishing is often the young man's introduction to the forest and wild. As a hunter and fisher he goes thither until at last the naturalist or poet distinguishes that which attracted him first, and he leaves the gun and rod behind. The mass of men are still and always young men in this respect. They do not think they are lucky unless they get a long string of fish, though they have the opportunity of seeing the pond all the while. Many of my fellow-citizens might go fishing a thousand times, perchance, before the sediment of fishing would sink to the bottom and leave their purpose pure, -- before they began to angle for the pond itself. ~ H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 26, 1853

At Cliffs. — The air is warmer, but wonderfully clear after the hail-storm.

I do not remember when I have seen it more clear.

The mountains and horizon outlines on all sides are distinct and near.

Nobscot has lost all its blue, is only a more distant hill pasture, and the northwest mountains are too terrestrial a blue and firmly defined to be mistaken for clouds.

Billerica is as near as Bedford commonly.

I see new spires far in the south, and on every side the horizon is extended many miles.

It expands me to look so much farther over the rolling surface of the earth.

Where I had seen or fancied only a hazy forest outline, I see successive swelling hills and remote towns.

So often to the luxurious and hazy summer in our minds, when, like Fletcher’s “ Martyrs in Heaven, " we, " estranged from all misery As far as Heaven and Earth discoasted lie, Swelter in quiet waves of immortality, " some great chagrin succeeds, some chilling cloud comes over.

But when it is gone, we are surprised to find that it has cleared the air, summer returns without its haze, we see infinitely further into the horizon on every side, and the boundaries of the world are enlarged.

The unclouded mind

January 17.

One day two young women — a Sunday — stopped at the door of my hut and asked for some water. I answered that I had no cold water but I would lend them a dipper. They never returned the dipper, and I had a right to suppose that they came to steal. They were a disgrace to their sex and to humanity. Pariahs of the moral world. Evil spirits that thirsted not for water but threw the dipper into the lake. Such as Dante saw. What the lake to them but liquid fire and brimstone? They will never know peace till they have re turned the dipper. In all the worlds this is decreed.

In proportion as I have celestial thoughts, is the necessity for me to be out and behold the western sky sunset these winter days. 

That is the symbol of the unclouded mind that knows neither winter nor summer. 

What is your thought like? 

That is the hue, that the purity, and transparency, and distance from earthly taint of my inmost mind. 

For whatever we see without is a symbol of something within, and that which is farthest off is the symbol of what is deepest within. The lover of contemplation, accordingly, will gaze much into the sky. 

Fair thoughts and a serene mind make fair days.  

Those western vistas through clouds to the sky show the clearest heavens, clearer and more elysian than if the whole sky is comparatively free from clouds.

As the skies appear to a man, so is his mind. Some see only clouds there; some behold there serenity, purity, beauty ineffable.

The world run to see the panorama, when there is a panorama in the sky which few go out to see.

"Evergreens" would be a good title for some of my things, — or " Gill-go-over-the-Ground," or " Winter- green," or " Checkerberry," or "Usnea Lichens," etc., etc. "Iter Canadense." . . . Methinks there might be a chapter, when I speak of hens in the thawy days and spring weather on the chips, called " Chickweed " or " Plantain."

It appears to me that at a very early age the mind of man, perhaps at the same time with his body, ceases to be elastic. His intellectual power becomes some thing defined and limited. He does not think expansively, as he would stretch himself in his growing days. What was flexible sap hardens into heart-wood, and there is no further change. In the season of youth, methinks, man is capable of intellectual effort and performance which surpass all rules and bounds; as the youth lays out his whole strength without fear or prudence and does not feel his limits. It is the transition from poetry to prose. The young man can run and leap; he has not learned exactly how far, he knows no limits. The grown man does not exceed his daily labor. He has no strength to waste.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 17, 1852

The necessity for me to be out and behold the western sky sunset these winter days. See December 25, 1858 ("How full of soft, pure light the western sky now, after sunset! . . . In a pensive mood I enjoy the complexion of the winter sky at this hour."); January 17, 1860 ("There was a splendid sunset. The northwest sky at first was what you may call a lattice sky,. . ., in which the clouds, which were uninterrupted overhead, were broken into long bars parallel to the horizon."); see also December 31, 1851 ("I have not enough valued and attended to the pure clarity and brilliancy of the winter skies."); January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset. The whole cope of heaven seen at once is never so elysian. Windows to heaven, the heavenward windows of the earth. ");  January 14, 1852 ("I notice to-night, about sundown, that the clouds in the eastern horizon are the deepest indigo-blue of any I ever saw."); January 26, 1852 (" Would you see your mind, look at the sky."); and  A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Western Sky

Fair thoughts and a serene mind make fair days. As the skies appear to a man, so is his mind. See  July 23, 1851 ("The mind is subject to moods, as the shadows of clouds pass over the earth."); December 27, 1851 ("The sky is always ready to answer to our moods."); January 26, 1852 (" Would you see your mind, look at the sky. Would you know your own moods, be weather-wise.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Moods and Seasons of the Mind.

Those western vistas through clouds to the sky show the clearest heavens, clearer and more elysian than if the whole sky is comparatively free from clouds. See December 11, 1854 ("That peculiar clear vitreous greenish sky in the west, as it were a molten gem.”); December 14. 1851 ("There is a beautifully pure greenish-blue sky under the clouds now in the southwest just before sunset."); December 14, 1852 ("Ah, who can tell the serenity and clarity of a New England winter sunset?"); ; December 31, 1851 ("I have not enough valued and attended to the pure clarity and brilliancy of the winter skies."); January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, . . . is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset ") January 24, 1852 ("Walden and White Ponds are a vitreous greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown."); July 23, 1852 ("As the light in the west fades, the sky there, seen between the clouds, has a singular clarity and serenity.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Western Sky

January 17. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  January 17

The unclouded mind

serene pure ineffable –

like the western sky. 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The unclouded mind

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 ©  2009-2024

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-520117

*****

In proportion as I have celestial thoughts, is the necessity for me to be out and behold the western sky before sunset these winter days. That is the symbol of the unclouded mind that knows neither winter nor summer.

 What is your thought like?

That is the hue, that the purity, and transparency, and distance from earthly taint of my inmost mind, for whatever we see without is a symbol of something within, and that which is farthest off is the symbol of what is deepest within.

 The lover of contemplation, accordingly, will gaze much into the sky.

 Fair thoughts and a serene mind make fair days.

 The rainbow is the symbol of the triumph which succeeds to a grief that has tried us to our advantage, so that at last we can smile through our tears.

 It is the aspect with which we come out of the house of mourning.

 We have found our relief in tears.

 As the skies appear to a man, so is his mind.

 Some see only clouds there; some, prodigies and portents ; some rarely look up at all ; their heads, like the brutes ', are directed toward earth.

 Some behold there serenity, purity, beauty ineffable.

 The world run to see the panorama, when there is a panorama in the sky which few go out to see. . . .


Those western vistas through clouds to the sky show the clearest heavens, clearer and more elysian than if the whole sky is comparatively free from clouds, for then there is wont to be a vapor more generally diffused, especially near the horizon, which, in cloudy days, is absorbed, as it were, and collected into masses ; and the vistas are clearer than the unobstructed cope of heaven. The endless variety in the forms and texture of the clouds! — some fine, some coarse grained. I saw to night overhead, stretching two thirds across the sky, what looked like the backbone, with portions of the ribs, of a fossil monster. Every form and creature is thus shadowed forth in vapor in the heavens.

I feel my Maker blessing me.

June 22 

The world is a musical instrument. The very touch affords an exquisite pleasure. I awake to its music with the calmness of a lake when there is not a breath of wind. Whom shall I thank for it? 

To be calm, to be serene! 

Are our serene moments mere foretastes of heaven,  – or a transient realization of what might be the whole tenor of our lives? 

June 22, 2016

Sometimes we are clarified and calmed healthily, as never before in our lives. We become like a still lake of purest crystal. All the world goes by us and is reflected in our deeps. And without effort our depths are revealed to ourselves. Such clarity obtained by such pure means! -- by simple living, by honesty of purpose.

So is it with us.

We live and rejoice.

I feel my Maker blessing me. 

H.D. Thoreau, Journal, June 22, 1851

 There is the calmness of the lake when there is not a breath of wind; See Day would not dawn if it were not for the inward Morning.("Waves of serener life pass over us from time to time, like flakes of sunlight over the fields in cloudy weather"); August 31, 1852 ("The wind is gone down; the water is smooth; a serene evening is approaching; the clouds are dispersing. . . .The reflections are the more perfect for the blackness of the water. This is the most glorious part of this day, the serenest, warmest, brightest part, and the most suggestive."); July 21, 1853 ("He who passes over a lake at noon, when the waves run, little imagines its serene and placid beauty at evening, as little as he anticipates his own serenity."). June 16, 1854 ("We walk to lakes to see our serenity reflected in them. When we are not serene, we go not to them."); Walden ("By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent . . . I may be either the driftwood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it")

The unclouded mind,

serene, pure, ineffable

like the western sky.

January 17, 1852

Serene as the sky,

emulating nature with

calm and peaceful lives.

October 3, 1859

So perfectly calm,

yet no man but myself sees

the Pond this morning.

April 14, 1852

See  also  Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Serene as the Sky and  Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, A body awake in the world.

Sometimes we are calmed

like a still lake when there is

not a breath of wind.

All the world goes by

 and without effort our depths 

revealed to ourselves.

We touch the world and

feel our Maker blessing us.

June 22, 1851

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, I feel my Maker blessing me.

 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

My pulse must beat with Nature. After a hard day's work without a thought, turning my very brain into a mere tool, only in the quiet of evening do I so far recover my senses as to hear the cricket, which in fact has been chirping all day.

In my better hours I am conscious of the influx of a serene and unquestionable wisdom ... What is that other kind of life to which I am thus continually allured ? which alone I love ? Is it a life for this world? ... Are our serene moments mere foretastes of heaven, — joys gratuitously vouchsafed to us as a consolation, — or simply a transient realization of what might be the whole tenor of our lives? 

To be calm, to be serene! There is the calmness of the lake when there is not a breath of wind; there is the calmness of a stagnant ditch. So is it with us. 

Sometimes we are clarified and calmed healthily, as we never were before in our lives, not by an opiate, but by some unconscious obedience to the all-just laws, so that we become like a still lake of purest crystal and without an effort our depths are revealed to our selves. All the world goes by us and is reflected in our deeps. 

Such clarity! obtained by such pure means! by simple living, by honesty of purpose. We live and rejoice. I awoke into a music which no one about me heard. Whom shall I thank for it ? 

The luxury of wisdom! the luxury of virtue! Are there any intemperate in these things ? I feel my Maker blessing me. To the sane man the world is a musical instrument. The very touch affords an exquisite pleasure.

And I hear around me, but never in sight, the many wood thrushes whetting their steel-like notes. Such keen singers ! It takes a fiery heat, many dry pine leaves added to the furnace of the sun, to temper their strains! Always they are either rising or falling to a new strain. After what a moderate pause they deliver themselves again ! saying ever a new thing, avoiding repetition, methinks answering one another. While most other birds take their siesta, the wood thrush discharges his song. It is delivered like a bolas, or a piece of jingling steel.