in Thoreau’s Journal:
We really have four seasons, each incredible to the other. Winter cannot be mistaken for summer here. Though I see the boat turned up on the shore, and half buried under snow, as I walk over the invisible river, summer is far away with its rustling reeds….
Would you see your mind, look into the sky. Would you know your own moods, be weather-wise. He whom the weather disappoints, disappoints himself.