in Thoreau’s Journal:
The progress of the season is indescribable…Perhaps the sound of the locust expresses the season as well as anything. The farmers say the abundance of the grass depends on wet in June. I might make a separate season of those days when the locust is heard. That is our torrid zone.
Some birds are poets & sing all summer–they are the true singers– Any man can write verses during the love season–
How fitting to have every day in a vase of water on your table the wild flowers of the season–which are just blossoming–can any house said to be furnished without them?…. So may the season suggest the fine thoughts it is fitted to suggest.