September 10, 1860

 in Thoreau’s Journal:
If you sit at an open attic window almost anywhere, about the 20th of September, you will see many a milkweed down go sailing by on a level with you, — though commonly it has lost its freight, —notwithstanding that you may not know of any of these plants growing in your neighborhood.

September 8, 1851

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…

September 7, 1851

 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.

September 3, 1853

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—


September 2, 1852

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.