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
The river is one
level white blanket of snow
quite to each shore now.
February 1, 1855
The scream of the jay
wholly without sentiment
a true winter sound.
February 2, 1854
This coating of snow
mysterious muffled sounds
the moon still obscured.
February 2, 1855
The skater sails midst
a moving world of snow-steam
as high as his knees.
February 3, 1855
The tracks of a mink
in shallow snow along the
edge of the river.
February 4, 1854
Distinct otter-track
by the rock at the junction
of the two rivers.
February 4, 1855
Partridges feeding
on the sumach berries make
fresh tracks every snow.
February 4, 1856
Silvery-lighted boughs
and shadowy intervals
belong to one tree.
February 5, 1852
Though on the back track
I draw nearer to the fox.
My thoughts grow foxy.
February 5, 1854
A mistiness makes
the woods look denser darker
and more primitive.
February 6, 1852
The coldest morning –
all day well below zero,
frostwork on windows.
February 6, 1855
Single trees distinct
and black on the hill under
dull mist-covered sky.
February 7, 1856
First crust to walk on.
Now no difference between
rivers ponds and fields.
February 8, 1852
My vaporous life
now radiant as frost in
a winter morning.
February 8, 1857
Though days are longer
cold sets in ever stronger.
It is midwinter.
February 9, 1851
The sun reflected from
a hundred rippling sluices –
melted snow-water.
Listening for the
first bluebird in this warm moist
softened sunlit air.
February 9, 1854
Drifted this morning.
A very fine and dry snow
about a foot deep.
February 9, 1855
My shadow is blue.
Bright sunlight on pure white snow –
celestial me.
February 10, 1855
Willows shed pollen
how many aeons before
man was created?
February 11, 1854
Minus ten degrees.
A blue atmosphere tinges
the distant pine woods.
February 11, 1855
Ice forced up on edge
like mirrors reflects the sun.
A fleet of ice boats.
February 12, 1851
The scream of a jay.
Cold hard tense frozen music
like the winter sky.
February 12 , 1854
Sun shines in amid
the pines and hemlocks as in
a warm apartment.
February 12, 1855
Sunlight thawing snow
strangely excites a springlike
melting in my thoughts.
February 12, 1856
Return on green ice
to walk amid purple clouds
of the sunset sky.
February 12, 1860
They come with the storm
the falling and driving snow–
a flock of snowbirds.
February 13, 1853
Walking toward the sun
rainbow colors reflected
from powdery snow.
The blue of the sky and
of the ice and water
of shadows on snow.
White of snow and clouds
and the black of clouds and of
thin wet snow on ice.
Purple of mountains
of the snow in drifts and of
clouds at evening.
The green of the sky
and of the ice and water
toward evening.
We are made to love
the river and the meadow –
wind ripples water.
The steady rushing
musical sound of rain soaks
into my spirit.
February 15, 1855
And another leaf
or feather frost on the trees –
handsome ghosts of trees.
February 14, 1855
This cold afternoon
I inhale the clear bright air --
the sky undimmed blue.
The fog is so thick
we cannot see the engine
almost upon us.
My voice is distinct
under the pines draped with mist –
you hear yourself speak.
Oak leaves show more red
amid the pines this wet day –
agreeably so.
And I feel as if
I stood a little nearer –
the heart of nature.
February 16, 1855
The musical sound
of rain on the shingles soaks
into my spirit.
February 15, 1855
Look back from the road
through the sun to white-pine tops
this soft afternoon.
What we call wildness
is a civilization
other than our own.
February 16, 1859
This crystalline snow
lies up so light and downy –
semitransparent.
The first springlike note
at the stone bridge from the hill
in the misty air
February 17, 1855
Pleasant day
gathering nuts and apples
(still sound)
colors red and green
on the bare ground.
Strong south wind
skunk-cabbage in flower.
February 18, 1851
Now for the first time
something in the air and light
is spring-suggesting.
February 18, 1855
A cloud in the west
changes the whole character
of the afternoon.
February 18, 1860
Cold unvaried snow
now stretching mile after mile
and no place to sit.
February 19, 1852
I tend to walk where
I cannot walk in summer.
Swamps river and ponds.
Who placed us with eyes
between microscopic and
telescopic worlds?
February 19, 1854
The bright-blue water
here and there between the ice
and on the meadow.
The northerly wind
roaring in the woods to-day
reminds me of March.
February 20, 1855
In new fallen snow
you cannot walk too early
to sense novelty.
February 21, 1854
Sheltered from the wind
I feel new life in Nature –
season’s warmer sun.
Chickadee passes
the news through all the forest –
spring is approaching.
Snow on the mountains
now a silver rim to this
basin of the world.
February 21, 1855
Raw westerly wind
but deliciously warm now
in sheltered places.
Such remarkably
pleasant weather – I listen
for the first bluebird.
February 22, 1855
Fine snow drives along
like steam curling from a roof.
I see the drifts form.
February 23, 1854
Though snow covers ground
the quality of the air
reminds me of spring.
Observe the poplar's
swollen buds and the brightness
of the willow's bark.
February 24, 1852
Waves on the meadows.
Large cakes of ice blown up-stream
against Hubbard’s Bridge.
February 25, 1851
Morning snow turns to
fine freezing rain with a glaze
changing to pure rain.
February 26, 1854
The North Branch has burst its icy fetters.
This restless and now
swollen stream flowing with ice
on either side sparkles
in the clear cool air.
If rivers come out
of their icy prison thus
bright and immortal
shall not I too
resume my spring life
with joy and hope?
Bright and immortal
the unfettered stream sparkles
in the clear cool air.
the unfettered stream sparkles
in the clear cool air.
To get the value
of the storm we must be out
long and travel far.
To-day it snows again
covering the ground.
To get the value of the storm
we must be out a long time
and travel far in it
so that it may fairly penetrate our skin
and we be as it were
turned inside out to it
and there be no part in us
but is wet or weather beaten –
so that we become storm men
instead of fair weather men.
The snow finally turns
to a drenching rain.
The westering sun
reflected from their edges
makes them shine finely.
February 28, 1855
From Pine Hill the snow-
crust shines in the sun as far
as the eye can reach.
“The year is but a succession of days,
and I see that I could assign some office to each day
which, summed up, would be the history of the year.”
Henry Thoreau, August 24, 1852
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, February 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
