Plucked a buttercup on Bear Hill to-day.

November 24

Plucked a buttercup on Bear Hill to-day.

November 24, 2020

I have certain friends whom I visit occasionally, but I commonly part from them early with a certain bitter-sweet sentiment. That which we love is so mixed and entangled with that we hate in one another that we are more grieved and disappointed, aye, and estranged from one another, by meeting than by absence.

Some men may be my acquaintances merely, but one whom I have been accustomed to regard, to idealize, to have dreams about as a friend, and mix up intimately with myself, can never degenerate into an acquaintance.  

I must know him on that higher ground or not know him at all. We do not confess and explain, because we would fain be so intimately related as to understand each other without speech. 

Our friend must be broad. His must be an atmosphere coextensive with the universe, in which we can expand and breathe.

For the most part we are smothered and stifled by one another. I go and see my friend and try his atmosphere. If our atmospheres do not mingle, if we repel each other strongly, it is of no use to stay.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 24, 1850

Plucked a buttercup on Bear Hill to-day. See November 2, 1852 ('Tall buttercups, red clover, houstonias"); November 14, 1852 ("Still yarrow, tall buttercup, and tansy"); November 23, 1852 ("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) . . . and perhaps tall buttercup, etc."); November 20, 1857 ("In the large Tommy Wheeler field, Ranunculus bulbosus in full bloom!")

We are more grieved and disappointed, aye, and estranged from one another, by meeting than by absence. See, e.g. February 15, 1851 ("Alas! Alas! when my friend begins to deal in confessions, breaks silence, makes a theme of friendship"); November 16, 1851 ("I love my friends very much , but I find that it is of no use to go to see them  I hate them commonly when I am near them. They belie themselves and deny me continually. "); December 18, 1851 ("When they who have aspired to be friends cease to sympathize, it is the part of religion to keep asunder. . . To explain to a friend is to suppose that you are not  intelligent of one another. If you are not, to what purpose will you explain?"); January 21, 1852 ("I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had, by each pursuing his proper path. I perceive that it is possible that we may have a better understanding now than when we were more at one. . . . Simply our paths diverge."); June 11, 1855 ("What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers? I walk alone. My heart is full. Feelings impede the current of my thoughts. I knock on the earth but no friend appears, and perhaps none is dreaming of me"); March 4, 1856 ("I do not believe in complaint, nor in explanation. The whole is but too plain, alas, already. We grieve that we do not love each other, that we cannot confide in each other."); March 28, 1856 ("Farewell, my friends, my path inclines to this side the mountain, yours to that."); February 8, 1857 ("And now another friendship is ended. I do not know what has made my friend doubt me, but I know that in love there is no mistake, and that every estrangement is well founded. . . . I am perfectly sad at parting from you. I could better have the earth taken away from under my feet, than the thought of you from my mind. ");  February 23, 1857 ('That aching of the breast, the grandest pain that man endures, which no ether can assuage . . . If the teeth ache they can be pulled. If the heart aches, what then? Shall we pluck it out?");  November 3, 1858 ("How long we will follow an illusion! On meeting that one whom I call my friend, I find that I had imagined something that was not there.. . . Thus I am taught that my friend is not an actual person. When I have withdrawn and am alone, I forget the actual person and remember only my ideal. Then I have a friend again "); February 5, 1859 ("When we have experienced many disappointments, such as the loss of friends, the notes of birds cease to affect us as they did")

Friends do not explain

because we  understand each 

other without speech. 

As long as there is a spark of love remaining.

February 15

Fatal is the discovery that our friend is fallible, that he has prejudices. He is, then, only prejudiced in our favor. What is the value of his esteem who does not justly esteem another? Alas! Alas! when my friend begins to deal in confessions, breaks silence, makes a theme of friendship (which then is always something past), and descends to merely human relations! 

February 15, 2022

As long as there is a spark of love remaining, cherish that alone. Only that can be kindled into a flame. 

I thought that friendship, that love was still possible between [us]. I thought that we had not withdrawn very far asunder. But now that my friend rashly, thoughtlessly, profanely speaks, recognizing the distance between us, that distance seems infinitely increased. 

Of our friends we do not incline to speak, to complain, to others; we would not disturb the foundations of confidence that may still be.

Why should we not still continue to live with the intensity and rapidity of infants? 

Is not the world, are not the heavens, as unfathomed as ever? 

Have we exhausted any joy, any sentiment? 

The author of Festus well exclaims:

          "Could we but think with the intensity

          We love with, we might do great things, I think."

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 15, 1851

Should we not continue to live with intensity? See May 24, 1857 ("We want no[t] completeness but intensity of life.")

Recognizing the distance between us, that distance seems infinitely increased. See e.g. January 21, 1852 ("I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had,"); February 8, 1857 ("I know that in love there is no mistake, and that every estrangement is well founded.")

The author of Festus.  Philip James Bailey. See Festus: A Poem, p. 320

As long as there is 

a spark of love remaining,

cherish that alone.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, 

As long as there is a spark of love remaining

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 ©  2009-2026

tinyurl.com/hdt-510215

Farewell, my friend (by moonlight all is simple)

 

 

We drifted apart

asteroids tumbling in space

the heat of the sun.

(April 25)

The other day I rowed in my boat

 a free even lovely young lady

and as I plied the oars

 she sat in the stern

 and there was

nothing but she

 between me

and the sky.

Along the river

the memory of roses --

late rose now in prime.

Thoughts of autumn and

the memory of past years

occupy my mind.

What you can recall of a walk

on the second day will differ from

what you remember on the first day --

as to one who is

journeying amid mountains

any view changes.

Farewell, my friend

my path inclines

 to this side the mountain,

yours to that --

for a long time you have appeared

further and further off to me --

I see that you will at length

 disappear altogether--

 for a season my path

seemed lonely without you --

the memory of me is steadily

passing away from you --

 my path grows narrower and steeper

and the night is approaching.

 I am struck by this sudden solitude

and remoteness that these places have acquired.

This evening for the first time the new moon

is reflected from the frozen snow-crust.

She who was as the morning light to me
is now neither the morning star
nor the evening star.

[June 19, 1840,  March 28, 1856,  July 23, 1860, 

July 31, 1856,  January 10, 1854, December 8, 1850 , October 27, 1851]

This moment in memory

half the leaves of our love

are still on the tree

and half have fallen

like a reflection.

(October 16)

See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Reminiscence and Prompting;  May 27, 1859 ("These expressions of the face of Nature are as constant and sure to recur as those of the eyes of maidens, from year to year, — sure to be repeated as long as time lasts.")

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Farewell my friend

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 © 2009-2022

tinyurl.com/HDTfarewellmyfriend

I had two friends.

March 4

To Carlisle, surveying.

I had two friends.

The one offered me friendship on such terms that I could not accept it, without a sense of degradation.

He would not meet me on equal terms, but only be to some extent my patron.

He would not come to see me, but was hurt if I did not visit him.

He would not readily accept a favor, but would gladly confer one.

He treated me with ceremony occasionally, though he could be simple and downright sometimes; and from time to time acted a part, treating me as if I were a distinguished stranger; was on stilts, using made words.

Our relation was one long tragedy, yet I did not directly speak of it.

I do not believe in complaint, nor in explanation.

The whole is but too plain, alas, already.

We grieve that we do not love each other, that we cannot confide in each other.

I could not bring myself to speak, and so recognize an obstacle to our affection.

I had another friend, who, through a slight obtuseness, perchance, did not recognize a fact which the dignity of friendship would by no means allow me to descend so far as to speak of, and yet the inevitable effect of that ignorance was to hold us apart forever.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, March 4, 1856

We grieve that we do not love each other. See e.g. January 21, 1852 ("I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had,. . . Simply our paths diverge."); June 11, 1855 ("What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers? I walk alone. My heart is full. Feelings impede the current of my thoughts. I knock on the earth but no friend appears, and perhaps none is dreaming of me"); March 28, 1856 ("Farewell, my friends, my path inclines to this side the mountain, yours to that."): February 8, 1857 ("And now another friendship is ended. I do not know what has made my friend doubt me, but I know that in love there is no mistake, and that every estrangement is well founded. . . . am perfectly sad at parting from you. I could better have the earth taken away from under my feet, than the thought of you from my mind. ")

March 4. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, March 4

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, I had two friends.

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

Obstacles of the Heart

October 27

She who was

as the morning light to me

is now neither the morning star

nor the evening star.

We meet but to find

each other further asunder

and the oftener we meet

the more rapid our divergence.

So a star of the first magnitude

pales in the heavens –

not from any fault in the observer's eye

nor from any fault in itself 

but because its progress

in its own system

has put a greater

distance between.

The obstacles of the heart 

are like granite blocks

one alone cannot move.

The obstacles which the heart meets with are like granite blocks which one alone cannot move. She who was as the morning light to me is now neither the morning star nor the evening star. We meet but to find each other further asunder, and the oftener we meet the more rapid our divergence. So a star of the first magnitude pales in the heavens, not from any fault in the observer's eye nor from any fault in itself, perchance, but because its progress in its own system has put a greater distance between.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 27, 1851 

See also December 15, 1841 ("I know of no redeeming qualities in me but a sincere love for some things, and when I am reproved I have to fall back on to this ground . . . My love is invulnerable. Meet me on that ground, and you will find me strong.");A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Farewell my friend

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Obstacles of the Heart

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 © 2009-2022

https://tinyurl.com/HDTheart

Peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had, by each pursuing his proper path.

January  21. 

One day, when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger and black, fiercely contending with one another, and rolling over on the chips. It was evidently a struggle for life and death which had grown out of a serious feud. Having once got hold, they never let go of each other, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips, each retaining his hold with mastiff-like pertinacity. 

Looking further, I found to my astonishment that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. They covered all the hills and vales of my wood-yard, and, indeed, the ground was already strewn with the dead, both red and black. 

It was the only war I had ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans and the black despots or imperialists. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and never human soldiers fought so resolutely. I watched a couple, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, that were fast locked in each other's embraces, now at noonday prepared to fight till the sun went down. The smaller red champion had fastened him self like a vise to his adversary's front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board, while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had divested him of several of his members. 

None manifested a disposition to retreat from the combat equal or unequal. It was evident that their battle-cry was conquer or die. They fought like mastiffs or bulldogs, who will not let go though all their legs are cut off. 

In the meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the side-hill of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had dispatched his foe or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs. He saw this unequal combat from afar, — for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red, — he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants, then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore leg, leaving the other to select among his own members, and so there were three united for life and death apparently, — united for life until death, — as if a new kind of attraction had been invented, which put all other locks and cements to shame. 

I should not wonder if they had their respective musical bands stationed on some chip and playing their national airs the while to cheer the dying combatants. (Whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it.) I was myself excited some what, even as if they had been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there is no other fight recorded in Concord that will bear a moment's comparison with this. 

I have no doubt they had as just a cause, one or even both parties, as our forefathers, and that the results will be as important and memorable. And there was far more patriotism and heroism. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or Dresden. I saw no disposition to retreat. 

I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on my window- sill, wishing [to] see the issue. 

Holding a microscope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that though he was assiduously gnawing at the near fore leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose own breastplate was apparently too thick for him; and the dark carbuncles of his eyes shone with ferocity such as wars only could excite. 

They struggled for half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again, the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the former were hanging on either side of him still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring, with feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only one or two legs, and I know not how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he had accomplished. I raised the tumbler, and he went off over the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat and had a pension settled on him, I do not know. But I thought that his industry would not be worth much thereafter. 

Which party was victorious I never learned, nor the cause of the war. But I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings harrowed and excited by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my door. 

To record truths which shall have the same relation and value to the next world, i.e. the world of thought and of the soul, that political news has to this. 

This winter they are cutting down our woods more seriously than ever, — Fair Haven Hill, Walden, Linnaea Borealis Wood, etc., etc. Thank God, they cannot cut down the clouds! 

History used to be the history of successive kings or their reigns, — the Williams, Henrys, Johns, Richards, etc., etc., all of them great in somebody's estimation. But we have altered that considerably. Hereafter it is to be to a greater extent the history of peoples. You do not hear some King Louis or Edward or Leopold referred to now by sensible men with much respect. 

Heard Higginson lecture to-night on Mohammed. Why did I not like it better? Can I deny that it was good? Perhaps I am bound to account to myself at least for any lurking dislike for what others admire and I am not prepared to find fault with. Well, I did not like it, then, because it did not make me like it, it did not carry me away captive. 

He is not simple enough. For the most part the manner overbore, choked off, and stifled, put out of sight and hearing, the matter. I was inclined to forget that he was speaking, conveying ideas; thought there had been an intermission. Never endeavor consciously to supply the tone which you think proper for certain sentences. It is as if a man whose mind was at ease should supply the tones and gestures for a man in distress who found only the words; as when one makes a speech and an other behind him makes gestures. 

Then he reminded me of Emerson, and I could not afford to be reminded of Christ himself. Yet who can deny that it was good? But it was that intelligence, that way of viewing things (combined with much peculiar talent), which is the common property of this generation. 

A man does best when he is most himself. 

I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had, by each pursuing his proper path. I perceive that it is possible that we may have a better understanding now than when we were more at one. Not expecting such essential agreement as before. Simply our paths diverge.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 21, 1852

I perceive that it is possible that we may have a better understanding now than when we were more at one. See  March 28, 1856 ("Farewell, my friends, my path inclines to this side the mountain, yours to that."); February 23, 1857 ("While I think I have broken one link, I have been forging another. ")

The notes of birds cease to affect us as they did.

February 5

When we have experienced many disappointments, such as the loss of friends, the notes of birds cease to affect us as they did. 

February 5, 2012

I see another butcher-bird on the top of a young tree by the pond.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 5, 1859

The loss of friends. See February 3, 1859 ("I perceive that we partially die ourselves through sympathy at the death of each of our friends or near relatives. Each such experience is an assault on our vital force. It becomes a source of wonder that they who have lost many friends still live.") Compare  January 21, 1852 ("I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had,"); June 11, 1855 ("What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers? I walk alone. My heart is full. Feelings impede the current of my thoughts. I knock on the earth but no friend appears, and perhaps none is dreaming of me."); March 28, 1856 ("Farewell, my friends, my path inclines to this side the mountain, yours to that."); February 8, 1857 ("And now another friendship is ended. I do not know what has made my friend doubt me, but I know that in love there is no mistake, and that every estrangement is well founded . . . I am perfectly sad at parting from you. I could better have the earth taken away from under my feet, than the thought of you from my mind."); February 23, 1857 ('That aching of the breast, the grandest pain that man endures, which no ether can assuage . . . If the teeth ache they can be pulled. If the heart aches, what then? Shall we pluck it out?"); November 3, 1858 ("How long we will follow an illusion! On meeting that one whom I call my friend, I find that I had imagined something that was not there.")

The notes of birds cease to effect us. See July 5, 1852 ("Some birds are poets and sing all summer . . . Any man can write verses during the love season. ")

Another butcher-bird. See February 3, 1856 ("See near the Island a shrike glide by . . . with a remarkably even and steady sail or gliding motion"); March 1, 1855 ("Saw a butcher-bird, as usual on top of a tree, and distinguished from a jay by black wings and tail and streak side of head.") and note to December 24, 1858 ("See another shrike this afternoon, — the fourth this winter!") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Northern Shrike

The notes of birds cease 

to affect us as they did 

when we lose a friend.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  The loss of a friend

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-590205

That aching of the breast, the grandest pain that man endures, which no ether can assuage.

February 23. 

I say in my thought to my neighbor, who was once my friend, "It is of no use to speak the truth to you, you will not hear it. What, then, shall I say to you?" At the instant that I seem to be saying farewell forever to one who has been my friend, I find myself unexpectedly near to him, and it is our very nearness and dearness to each other that gives depth and significance to that forever. Thus I am a helpless prisoner, and these chains I have no skill to break. While I think I have broken one link, I have been forging another. 

I have not yet known a friendship to cease, I think. I fear I have experienced its decaying. Morning, noon, and night, I suffer a physical pain, an aching of the breast which unfits me for my tasks. It is perhaps most intense at evening. With respect to Friendship I feel  like a wreck that is driving before the gale, with a crew suffering from hunger and thirst, not knowing what shore, if any, they may reach, so long have I breasted the conflicting waves of this sentiment, my seams open, my timbers laid bare. 

I float on Friendship's sea simply because my specific gravity is less than its, but no longer that stanch and graceful vessel that careered so buoyantly over it. My planks and timbers are scattered. At most I hope to make a sort of raft of Friendship, on which, with a few of our treasures, we may float to some firm land. That aching of the breast, the grandest pain that man endures, which no ether can assuage. 

You cheat me, you keep me at a distance with your manners. I know of no other dishonesty, no other devil. Why this doubleness, these compliments ? They are the worst of lies. A lie is not worse between traders than a compliment between friends. I would not, I can not speak. I will let you feel my thought, my feeling. 

Friends! they are united for good and for evil. They can delight each other as none other can. They can distress each other as none other can. Lying on lower levels is but a trivial offense compared with civility and compliments on the level of Friendship. 

I visit my friend for joy, not for disturbance. If my coming hinders him in the least conceivable degree, I will exert myself to the utmost to stay away, I will get the Titans to help me stand aloof, I will labor night and day to construct a rampart between us. If my coming casts but the shadow of a shadow before it, I will retreat swifter than the wind and more untrackable. I will begone irrevocably, if possible, before he fears that I am coming. 

If the teeth ache they can be pulled. If the heart aches, what then? Shall we pluck it out? 

Must friends then expect the fate of those Oriental twins, — that one shall at last bear about the corpse of the other, by that same ligature that bound him to a living companion? 

Look before you leap. Let the isthmus be cut through, unless sea meets sea at exactly the same level, unless a perfect understanding and equilibrium has been established from the beginning around Cape Horn and the unnamed northern cape. What a tumult! It is Atlantic and Atlantic, or it is Atlantic and Pacific. 

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 23, 1857

I am a helpless prisoner, and these chains I have no skill to break. See February 8, 1857 ("And now another friendship is ended.")

My diffuse and vaporous life now concentrated and radiant as frost in a winter morning.

February 8

Debauched and worn-out senses require the violent vibrations of an instrument to excite them, but sound and still youthful senses, not enervated by luxury, hear music in the wind and rain and running water. One would think from reading the critics that music was intermittent as a spring in the desert, dependent on some Paganini or Mozart, or heard only when the Pierians or Euterpeans drive through the villages; but music is perpetual, and only hearing is intermittent. 

I hear it in the softened air of these warm February days which have broken the back of the winter. 

For two nights past it has not frozen, but a thick mist has overhung the earth, and you awake to the unusual and agreeable sight of water in the streets. Several strata of snow have been washed away from the drifts, down to that black one formed when dust was blowing from plowed fields. 

Riordan's solitary cock, standing on such an icy snow-heap, feels the influence of the softened air, and the steam from patches of bare ground here and there, and has found his voice again. The warm air has thawed the music in his throat, and he crows lustily and unweariedly, his voice rising to the last. 

Yesterday morning our feline Thomas, also feeling the springlike influence, stole away along the fences and walls, which raise him above the water, and only returned this morning reeking with wet. Having got his breakfast, he already stands on his hind legs, looking wishfully through the window, and, the door being opened a little, he is at once off again in spite of the rain. 

Again and again I congratulate myself on my so-called poverty. I was almost disappointed yesterday to find thirty dollars in my desk which I did not know that I possessed, though now I should be sorry to lose it. 

The week that I go away to lecture, however much I may get for it, is unspeakably cheapened. The preceding and succeeding days are a mere sloping down and up from it. In the society of many men, or in the midst of what is called success, I find my life of no account, and my spirits rapidly fall. I would rather be the barrenest pasture lying fallow than cursed with the compliments of kings, than be the sulphurous and accursed desert where Babylon once stood. 

But when I have only a rustling oak leaf, or the faint metallic cheep of a tree sparrow, for variety in my winter walk, my life be comes continent and sweet as the kernel of a nut. I would rather hear a single shrub oak leaf at the end of a wintry glade rustle of its own accord at my approach, than receive a shipload of stars and garters from the strange kings and peoples of the earth. 

By poverty, i. e. simplicity of life and fewness of incidents, I am solidified and crystallized, as a vapor or liquid by cold. It is a singular concentration of strength and energy and flavor. 

Chastity is perpetual acquaintance with the All. 

February 8, 2020

My diffuse and vaporous life becomes as the frost leaves and spiculae radiant as gems on the weeds and stubble in a winter morning. 

You think that I am impoverishing myself by withdrawing from men, but in my solitude I have woven for myself a silken web or chrysalis, and, nymph-like, shall ere long burst forth a more perfect creature, fitted for a higher society. 

By simplicity, commonly called poverty, my life is concentrated and so becomes organized, or a κόσμος , which before was inorganic and lumpish.

The otter must roam about a great deal, for I rarely see fresh tracks in the same neighborhood a second time the same winter, though the old tracks may be apparent all the winter through. I should not wonder if one went up and down the whole length of the river. 

Hayden senior (sixty-eight years old) tells me that he has been at work regularly with his team almost every day this winter, in spite of snow and cold. Even that cold Friday, about a fortnight ago, he did not go to a fire from early morning till night. As the thermometer, even at 12.45 p.m., was at -9°, with a very violent wind from the northwest, this was as bad as an ordinary arctic day. He was hauling logs to a mill, and persevered in making his paths through the drifts, he alone breaking the road. However, he froze his ears that Friday. Says he never knew it so cold as the past month. 

He has a fine elm directly behind his house, divided into many limbs near the ground. It is a question which is the most valuable, this tree or the house. In hot summer days it shades the whole house. He is going to build a shed around it, inclosing the main portion of the trunk. 

P. M. — To Hubbard Bath. 

Another very warm day, I should think warmer than the last. The sun is from time to time promising to show itself through the mist, but does not. A thick steam is everywhere rising from the earth and snow, and apparently this makes the clouds which conceal the sun, the air being so much warmer than the earth. The snow is gone off very rapidly in the night, and much of the earth is bare, and the ground partially thawed. 

It is exciting to walk over the moist, bare pastures, though slumping four or five inches, and see the green mosses again. This vapor from the earth is so thick that I can hardly see a quarter of a mile, and ever and anon it condenses to rain-drops, which are felt on my face. 

The river has risen, and the water is pretty well over the meadows. If this weather holds a day or two longer, the river will break up generally. 

I see one of those great ash-colored puffballs with a tinge of purple, open like a cup, four inches in diameter. The upper surface is (as it were bleached) quite hoary. Though it is but just brought to light from beneath the deep snow, and the last two days have been misty or rainy without sun, it is just as dry and dusty as ever, and the drops of water rest on it, at first undetected, being coated with its dust, looking like unground pearls. 

I brought it home and held it in a basin of water. To my surprise, when held under water it looked like a mass of silver or melted lead, it was so coated with air, and when I suffered it to rise, — for it had to be kept down by force, — instead of being heavy like a sponge which has soaked water, it was as light as a feather, and its surface perfectly dry, and when touched it gave out its dust the same as ever. 

It was impossible to wet. It seems to be encased in a silvery coat of air which is water-tight. The water did not penetrate into it at all, and running off as you lifted it up, it was just as dry as before, and on the least jar floating in dust above your head. 

The ground is so bare that I gathered a few Indian relics. 

And now another friendship is ended. I do not know what has made my friend doubt me, but I know that in love there is no mistake, and that every estrangement is well founded. 

But my destiny is not narrowed, but if possible the broader for it. The heavens withdraw and arch themselves higher. 

I am sensible not only of a moral, but even a grand physical pain, such as gods may feel, about my head and breast, a certain ache and fullness. This rending of a tie, it is not my work nor thine. It is no accident that we mind; it is only the awards of fate that are affecting. I know of no aeons, or periods, no life and death, but these meetings and separations. 

My life is like a stream that is suddenly dammed and has no outlet; but it rises the higher up the hills that shut it in, and will become a deep and silent lake.

Certainly there is no event comparable for grandeur with the eternal separation — if we may conceive it so — from a being that we have known. I become in a degree sensible of the meaning of finite and infinite. What a grand significance the word "never" acquires! 

With one with whom we have walked on high ground we cannot deal on any lower ground ever after. We have tried for so many years to put each other to this immortal use, and have failed.

Undoubtedly our good genii have mutually found the material unsuitable. We have hitherto paid each other the highest possible compliment; we have recognized each other constantly as divine, have afforded each other that opportunity to live that no other wealth or kindness can afford. And now, for some reason inappreciable by us, it has become necessary for us to withhold this mutual aid.

Perchance there is none beside who knows us for a god, and none whom we know for such. Each man and woman is a veritable god or goddess, but to the mass of their fellows disguised. There is only one in each case who sees through the disguise. That one who does not stand so near to any man as to see the divinity in him is truly alone. 

I am perfectly sad at parting from you. I could better have the earth taken away from under my feet, than the thought of you from my mind. 

One while I think that some great injury has been done, with which you are implicated, again that you are no party to it. I fear that there may be incessant tragedies, that one may treat his fellow as a god but receive somewhat less regard from him. I now almost for the first time fear this. Yet I believe that in the long run there is no such inequality. 

Here we are in the backwoods of America repeating Hebrew prayers and psalms in which occur such words as amen and selah, the meaning of some of which we do not quite understand, reminding me of Moslem prayers in which, it seems, the same or similar words are used. How Mormon-like!

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 8, 1857

Music in the wind and rain and running water. See February 15, 1855 ("The steady, soaking, rushing sound of the rain on the shingles is musical.")

Music is perpetual, and only hearing is intermittent. See December 11, 1855 ("Beauty and music are not mere traits and exceptions. They are the rule and character. It is the exception that we see and hear. ")

The softened air of these warm February days which have broken the back of the winter. See February 8, 1856 ("The snow is soft, and the eaves begin to run as not for many weeks."); February 8, 1854 ("Rain, rain, rain, carrying off the snow and leaving a foundation of ice. "); February 8, 1852 ("Night before last, our first rain for a long time; this afternoon, the first crust to walk on."); February 8, 1860 ("There is a peculiarity in the air when the temperature is thus high and the weather fair, at this season, which makes sounds more clear and pervading, as if they trusted themselves abroad further in this genial state of the air.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of Spring: Change in the Air

 Music is perpetual, and only hearing is intermittent. I hear it in the softened air of these warm February days which have broken the back of the winter.  February 8, 1857

  

The otter must roam about a great deal, for I rarely see fresh tracks in the same neighborhood a second time the same winter, though the old tracks may be apparent all the winter through. See March 31, 1857 ("The existence of the otter, our largest wild animal, is not betrayed to any of our senses (or at least not to more than one in a thousand)!") See also  January 30, 1854 ("How retired an otter manages to live! He grows to be four feet long without any mortal getting a glimpse of him."); January 29. 1853 ("Melvin . . . Never saw an otter track"); January 30, 1854 ("How retired an otter manages to live! He grows to be four feet long without any mortal getting a glimpse of him,"); February 4, 1855 ("See this afternoon a very distinct otter-track by the Rock, at the junction of the two rivers.”); February 20, 1855 (Among the quadrupeds of Concord, the otter is "very rare.”); February 20, 1856 (“See a broad and distinct otter-trail, made last night or yesterday"); . February 22, 1856 (“Just below this bridge begins an otter track, several days old yet very distinct, which I trace half a mile down the river.") and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Otter

That cold Friday, about a fortnight ago  See January 23, 1857 ("The coldest day that I remember recording, clear and bright, but very high wind, blowing the snow. ");  February 7, 1857(" Several men I have talked with froze their ears a fortnight ago yesterday, the cold Friday; one who had never frozen his ears before.”)

And now another friendship is ended. See e.g. January 21, 1852 ("I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had, by each pursuing his proper path. ");  February 19, 1857 ("A man cannot be said to succeed in this life who does not satisfy one friend." ); February 23, 1857 ('That aching of the breast, the grandest pain that man endures, which no ether can assuage . . .  If the teeth ache they can be pulled. If the heart aches, what then? Shall we pluck it out?");  February 5, 1859 ("When we have experienced many disappointments, such as the loss of friends, the notes of birds cease to affect us as they did")

February 8. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February 8

My vaporous life

now radiant as frost in

a winter morning.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, My vaporous life

 "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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