A Book of the Seasons: January Moonlight

 

What are heat and cold,

day and night, sun, moon,

and stars to us?

Henry Thoreau, January 26, 1852

The invisible moon

gives light through the thickest of

a driving snow-storm.

January 7, 1852

January 1. Moon little more than half full. Not a cloud in the sky. The stars dazzlingly bright. It is a remarkably warm night for the season, the ground almost entirely bare . . . The white pines, now seen against the moon, with their single foliage, look thin . . . Perhaps the only thing that spoke to me on this walk was the bare, lichen-covered gray rock at the Cliff, in the moonlight, naked and almost warm as in summer. January 1, 1852

January 7.  Later this evening, walking to Lincoln to lecture in a driving snow-storm, the invisible moon gives light through the thickest of it. January 7, 1852

January 8.  We have a fine moonlight evening after, and as by day I have noticed that the sunlight reflected from this moist snow had more glitter and dazzle to it than when the snow was dry, so now I am struck by the brighter sheen from the snow in the moonlight. All the impurities in the road are lost sight of, and the melting snow shines like frostwork. When returning from Walden at sunset, the only cloud we saw was a small purplish one, exactly conforming to the outline of Wachusett, — which it concealed, — as if on that mountain only the universal moisture was at that moment condensed.  January 8, 1860

January 19.  As I come home through the village at 8.15 P. M., by a bright moonlight, the moon nearly full and not more than 18° from the zenith, the wind northwest, but not strong, and the air pretty cold, I see the melon-rind arrangement of the clouds on a larger scale and more distinct than ever before. January 19, 1856

January 21. A fine, still, warm moonlight evening. We have had one or two already. Moon not yet full. . . . I wish to hear the silence of the night, for the silence is something positive and to be heard. I cannot walk with my ears covered. I must stand still and listen with open ears, far from the noises of the village, that the night may make its impression on me. A fertile and eloquent silence . . . Silence alone is worthy to be heard. Silence is of various depth and fertility, like soil. . . . As I leave the village, drawing nearer to the woods, I listen from time to time to hear the hounds of Silence baying the Moon, — to know if they are on the track of any game. If there 's no Diana in the night, what is it worth? I hark the goddess Diana. The silence rings; it is musical and thrills me. A night in which the silence was audible. I hear the unspeakable. I easily read the moral of my dreams. January 21, 1853

January 23.  And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene. January 23, 1852

January 24.  And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night. January 24, 1852

See also 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, March Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, April Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, May Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, June Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, July Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, August Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, September Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, October Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, November Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, December  Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, January Moonlight

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

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. 

A Book of the Seasons: November days I (now there is nothing but how bright the stars)

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 22, 2022

It is a bright, clear, 

warm November day.

 I feel blessed. I love my life.

 I warm toward all nature. 

November 1, 1851

In November,

 a man will eat his heart, 

if in any month. 

November 1, 1852

November twilight,

clear white light seen through the woods —

the leaves being gone.

November 2, 1853

In the cold sunlight

In the cold sunlight

I see the bare hillside beyond

and think now we are left

to the hemlocks and pines

with their silvery light.

to the bare trees and withered grass. 

to a certain emptiness beyond

between the hemlocks and the hill,

the bleak fields vacated. 

The very earth is a house 

shut up for the winter.

I go knocking about it in vain. –

but now I am cheered

to hear a chickadee on a hemlock

that old acquaintance

assured to be here all winter.

All that is 

evergreen in me 

revives at once.

November 7, 1858

The chickadee 

Hops near to me.

November 8, 1857

 A true November sunset

We had a true November sunset 

after a dark, cloudy afternoon.

The sun reached a clear stratum 

just before setting  . . .  and 

a cold, yellow sunlight 

suddenly illumined

the withered grass 

of the fields around.

November 9, 1858

Now a new season begins 

The season of brilliant leaves

 may be considered over, — 

say about the 10th; 

and now a new season begins, 

the pure November season 

of the russet earth 

and withered leaf 

and bare twigs 

and hoary withered goldenrods.

November 10, 1858

November 

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 11, 1858

Now is there nothing

Now is there nothing

but the echo of your steps

over frozen ground.

In this cold weather

your deep inward fires burn

with a clearer flame.

 November 13, 1851

The willow twigs

The willow twigs right

of the Red Bridge causeway

are bright greenish-

yellow and reddish

as in the spring.

November 14, 1854

Just after sundown

Just after sundown the waters

become suddenly smooth

and the clear yellow light

of the western sky

reflected in the water

making it doubly light

to me on the water

diffusing light from below

as well as above.

November 15, 1853

The pines on shore

Colder weather

very windy

but still no snow.

Ice along the river

does not melt. 

The waves running high

with white caps

give a pleasant motion

to the boat. 

Pines on shore 

look very cold

reflecting a silvery light.

 November 16, 1852

November lights

We are interested at this season

by the manifold ways in which

the light is reflected to us. 

Looking toward the sun now

when an hour high,

many small birches between,

the light pleasantly diffused.

Ascending a little knoll

covered with sweet-fern

the sunlight reflected

as from grass and weeds

covered with hoar frost

a perfect halo of light

resting on the knoll

as I move to right or left. 

The setting sun reflected from windows

more brightly than any other season.

The hundred silvery lights of November.

A myriad of surfaces now 

prepared to reflect the light.

November 17, 1858

These are cold, gray days. 

 November 18, 1852 

Such is 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,

pale brown bleaching almost hoary

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. 

November 18, 1857

A cold gray day

A cold gray day

once spitting snow. 

Water froze in tubs 

 last night. 

November 19, 1855

Seen when the sun is low

Seen when the sun is low –

the rare wholesome

and permanent beauty

of withered oak leaves

of various hues of brown --

Quaker colors, sober ornaments

beauty that quite satisfies the eye.

The richness and variety same as before –

the colors different, incorruptible and lasting.

November 20, 1858

Fair Haven Pond

I see Fair Haven Pond

with its island and meadow

between the island

and the shore and a

strip of perfectly still 

and smooth water in the

lee of the island

and two hawks 

fish hawks perhaps

sailing over it.

I do not see how

it could be improved –

or yet what these things can be.

I begin to see

such an object when I

cease to understand it.

and I see that I

did not appreciate or

realize it before –

how adapted these

forms and colors to my eye!

meadow and island!

Nature so reserved!

the hawks and ducks so aloof!

What are these things? 

I get no further than this:

we are made to love

pond and meadow as the wind

to ripple water.

November 21, 1850

November's bare bleak 

inaccessible beauty 

seen through a clear air.

A very beautiful November day - 

a cool but clear, crystalline air. 

 I rejoice in the bare, bleak, 

hard, and barren-looking 

surface of the tawny pastures, 

the firm outline of the hills, 

and the air so bracing 

and wholesome.

 

Simply to see to a distant

 horizon through a clear air, –

this is wealth enough for one afternoon. 

It is glorious November weather

and only November fruits are out.

 

November 22, 1860

November 22, 2017

The new-fallen snow

This morning is white –

the beauty and purity

of new-fallen snow.

The new-fallen snow

seen lying just as it fell

on the twigs and leaves.

With the first snowfall

Nature seems to relent her

November harshness.

November 23, 1852

Snow sugars the ground

to reveal a cow-path in

the distant landscape.

November 24, 1858

Amber light in the west 

A clear amber light in the west 

and, turning about, 

we are surprised

 at the darkness in the east –

 a crescent of night

 as if a thick snow-storm gathering

that we are not prepared for –

 yet the air is clear.

November 25, 1851

The unexpected

exhilarating yellow 

light of November.

November 25, 1857

November 25, 2017

The warmth of existence.

The air this afternoon  

is indescribably clear and exhilarating

and though the thermometer 

would show it to be cold

I think that there is a finer and

purer warmth than in summer –

a warmth hardly sensuous

but rather the satisfaction of existence.

I  experience such an interior comfort

 

as if the thin atmosphere  

were the medium of invisible flames

as if the whole landscape 

were one great hearthside .

When I get up so high on the side of the Cliff 

the sun is setting like an Indian-summer sun.  

There is a purple tint in the horizon. 

It is warm on the face of the rocks 

and I could sit till the sun disappears 

to dream there. A mild sunset 

such as is to be attended to.

Just as the sun shines into us 

warmly and serenely

our Creator 

breathes on us 

and re-creates us.

 

November 25, 1850

The bare, barren earth 

cheerless without ice and snow –

but how bright the stars. 

November 27, 1853

Twilight makes so large

a part of the afternoon

these November days.

November 28, 1859

A regular snow-storm

A very few fine snowflakes 

falling for many hours, and now, 

by 2 P. M., a regular snow-storm --

fine flakes falling steadily

 rapidly whitening all the landscape. 

In half an hour the russet earth 

is painted white even to the horizon. 

Do we know of any other

 so silent and sudden a change? 

I cannot now walk without 

leaving a track behind me.

November 28, 1858

Glorious yellow sunlight

Cloudy and milder this afternoon

but now I begin to see under the clouds

 

in the west horizon a clear 

crescent of yellowish sky

 

and suddenly a glorious yellow sunlight

 falls on all the eastern landscape --

      russet fields and hillsides,

      evergreens and rustling oaks

      and single leafless trees. 

The clearness of the air at this season 

  the light is all from one side

  

 reflected  from russet earth and clouds 

so intensely bright --

all the limbs of a maple 

far eastward rising over a hill 

wonderfully distinct and lit.

I think that we have some such sunsets 

 peculiar to the season every year. 

 

I should call it the russet afterglow of the year.

November 29, 1853

“Winter, come on!” 

Again I am struck 

by the wholesome colors of

 the withered oak leaves -

  the clear reddish-brown

of the shrub oak, contrasting

 whitish undersides 

 so strong and cheerful

as if it rejoiced at the 

advent of winter.

November 29, 1857

Sparkling windows and

vanes of the village now seen

against the mountains.

 November 30, 1852

Recognition from white pines

A cold and windy

afternoon with snow not yet

melted on the ground.  

My eye wanders as

I sit on an oak stump by

an old cellar hole.

Methinks that in my 

mood I am asking Nature 

to give me a sign.

Transient gladness.

I do not know what it is – 

something that I see:

This recognition

from white pines now reflecting

a silvery light.

And  by the old site

I sit on the stump of an

oak which once grew here.

November 30, 1851

November 30, 2015

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

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

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

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

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