in Thoreau’s Journal:

There is a place whither I should walk today though oftenest I fail to find; when, by accident, I ramble into it, great is my delight. I have stood by my door sometimes half an hour irresolute as to what course I should take…

What shall we do with a man who is afraid of the woods—their solitude & darkness— What salvation is there for him? God is silent & mysterious.

Some of our richest days are those in which no sun shines outwardly, but so much the more a sun shines inwardly. I love nature. I love the landscape…

The sweet scented life everlasting…
The partridge berry leaves checker the ground…
The era of wild apples will soon be over—

My Journal should be the record of my love. I would write in it only the things I love. My affection for any aspect of the world. What I love to think of. I have no more distinctness or pointedness in my yearnings than an expanding bud—which does indeed point to to flower & fruit to summer & autumn—but is aware of the warm sun & spring influence only.

Photo: November 14, 2016