in Thoreau’s Journal:
And next the redness became a sort of yellowish or fawn colored light & the sun now set fire to the edges of the broken cloud which had hung over the horizon—& they glowed like burning turf.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
Perhaps a history of the year would be a history of the grass, or of a leaf, regarding the grass- blades as leaves, for it is equally true that the leaves soon lose their freshness and soundness, and become the prey of insects and of drought…
The period of youth is past. The year may be in its summer, in its manhood, but it is no longer in the flower of its age. It is a season of withering, of dust and heat, a season of small fruits and trivial experiences. Summer thus answers to manhood. But there is an aftermath in early autumn, and some spring flowers bloom again, followed by an Indian summer of finer atmosphere and of a pensive beauty. May mv life be not destitute of its Indian summer, a season of fine and clear, mild weather…
in Thoreau’s Journal:
A certain refinement & civilization in nature which increases with the wildness. The civilization that consists with wildness. The light that is in night. A smile as in a dream on the face of the sleeping lake. There is light enough to show what we see–what night has to exhibit–any more would obscure these objects. I am not advertised of any deficiency of light…
It takes some time to wear off the trivial impression which the day has made—& thus the first hours of night are sometimes lost.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
….the dew or fog rather on the fine grass in meadows—a dirty white which one of these morning—will be frozen to a white frost.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
I have noticed the thistle-down for some days in the air—not yet the milkweed—though some flowers of the thistle are still seen.
September 4, 2017
in Thoreau’s Journal:
See one or 2 lilies yet.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The Soapwort gentian out abundantly in Flints-Bridge-Lane-ap. for a week—a surprisingly deep faintly purplish blue. Crowded bunches of 10 or a dozen sessile & closed narrow or oblong diamond or sharp dome-shape flowers— The whole bunch like many sharp domes of an oriental city crowded together.
I have here actually drawn my pen round one.
It is the flowering of the sky. The sky has descended & kissed the earth. In (at top) a whorl of clear smooth rich green leaves. Why come these blue flowers thus late in the year. A dome-like crowd of domelets.
Now is the season for those comparatively rare but beautiful wild berries which are not food for man— If we so industriously collect those berries which are sweet to the palate—it is strange that we do not devote an hour in the year to gathering those which are beautiful to the eye. It behoves me to go a berrying in this sense once a year at least—
berries which are as beautiful as flowers, but far less known—the fruit of the flower—to fill my basket with the neglected but beautiful fruit of the various species of cornels & viburnums—poke—arum medeoloas, thorn &c—
in Thoreau’s Journal:
Looking across the pond from the Peak toward Fair Haven which I seem to see—all the earth beyond appears insulated & floated even by this small sheet of water—the heavens being seen reflected, as it were beneath it—so it looks thin.
The scenery of this small pond is humble though very beautiful, & does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not long frequented it, or lived by its shore.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
I see 2 or 3 small maples already scarlet across the pond, beneath where the white stems of 3 birches diverge—at the point of a promontory next the water—a distinct scarlet tint a quarter of a mile off.
