in Thoreau’s Journal:
The shrub oaks are now blossoming. The scarlet tanagers are come.
The oak leaves of all colors are just expanding, and are more beautiful than most flowers. The hickory buds are almost leaves. The landscape has a new life and light infused into it. The deciduous trees are springing, to countenance the pines, which are evergreen. It seems to take but one summer day to fetch the summer in. The turning-point between winter and summer is reached.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
I sit now on a rock on the west slope of Fair Haven orchard, an hour before sunset, this warm, almost sultry evening, the air filled with the sweetness of apple blossoms (this is blossom week) — or I think it is mainly that meadow fragrance still — the sun partly concealed behind a low cloud in the west, the air cleared by last evening’s thunder-shower, the river now beautifully smooth (though a warm, bland breeze blows up here), full of light and reflecting the placid western sky and the dark woods which overhang it. I was surprised, on turning round, to behold the serene and everlasting beauty of the world, it was so soothing, I saw that I could not go home to supper and lose it. It was so much fairer, serener, more beautiful, than my mood had been. The fields beyond the river have unexpectedly a smooth, lawn-like beauty, and in beautiful curves sweep round the edge of the woods. The rapidly expanding foliage of the deciduous trees (last evening’s rain or moisture has started them) lights up with a lively yellow green the dark pines which we have so long been used to. Some patches (I speak of woods half a mile or more off) are a lively green, some gray or reddish-gray still, where white oaks stand. With the stillness of the air comes the stillness of the water. The sweetest singers among the birds are heard more distinctly now, as the reflections are seen more distinctly in the water — the veery constantly now. Methinks this serene, ambrosial beauty could hardly have been but for last evening’s thunder-shower, which, to be sure, barely touched us, but cleared the air and gave a start to vegetation. The elm on the opposite side of the river has now a thin but dark verdure, almost as dark as the pines, while, as I have said, the prevailing color of the deciduous woods is a light yellowish and sunny green. The woods rarely if ever present a more beautiful aspect from afar than now. Methinks the black oak at early leafing is more red than the red oak. Ah, the beauty of this last hour of the day — when a power stills the air and smooths all waters and all minds — that partakes of the light of the day and the stillness of the night!
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The woods putting forth new leaves; it is a memorable season. So hopeful!
in Thoreau’s Journal:
Trees generally are now bursting into leaf. The aspect of oak and other woods at a distance is somewhat like that of a very thick & reddish or yellowish mist about the evergreens— In other directions the light graceful—& more distinct yellowish green forms of birches are seen—& in swamps the reddish or reddish brown crescents of the red maple tops—now covered with keys— Oak leaves are as big as mouse ear & farmers are busy planting.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The sounds & sights—as birds & flowers heard & seen at those seasons when there are fewest—are most memorable & suggestive of poetic associations.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The shad blossom…a very beautiful delicate flower….with its purplish stipules & delicate drooping white blossoms— — So large & graceful a tree or bush—
The shad blossom days in the woods.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
How rarely I meet with a man who can be free, even in thought! We live according to rule. Some men are bedridden; all, world-ridden.
I take my neighbor, an intellectual man, out into the woods and invite him to take a new and absolute view of things, to empty clean out of his thoughts all institutions of men and start again; but he can’t do it, he sticks to his traditions and his crochets. He thinks that governments, colleges, newspapers, etc., are from everlasting to everlasting.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
A blue heron flies away from the shore of the pond.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The rain is making the grass grow apace– It appears to stand upright–its blades and you can almost see it grow. For some reason I now remember the autumn–the succory & the golden-rod. We remember autumn to best advantage in the spring–the fine aroma of it reaches us then. Are those the young keys of sugar maples that I see?
The Canada? (N Brook’s) plum in bloom & a cherry tree. How closely the flower follows upon if it does not precede the leaf! The leaves are but calyx & escort to the flower. Some beds of clover wave…
in Thoreau’s Journal:
This has been almost the first warm day––none yet quite so warm.
Walking to the Cliffs this afternoon––I noticed on Fair Haven Hill a season still-ness as I looked over the distant budding forest & heard the buzzing of a fly––
in Thoreau’s Journal:
It is wonderful what a variety of flowers may grow within the range of a walk & how long some very conspicuous ones may escape the most diligent walker—If you do not chance to visit their localities the right week or fortnight-when their signs are out. It is a flaming leaf The very leaf has flowered-not the ripe tints of autumn but the rose in the cheek of infancy–a more positive flowering.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
If man is thankful for the serene & warm day—much more are the flowers—
in Thoreau’s Journal:
Bluets now just begun.— Dewy calls it Venus Pride! Gray says truly “a very delicate little herb” — “producing in spring a profusion of handsome bright blue blossoms fading to white with a yellow eye.” I should say bluish white.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
A really warm day. I perspire in my thick coat….The maple-tops show red with their blossoms against the higher trees….The red maples & elms now covered with full rich color are now on the whole the most common & obvious blossoms. It is their season, and they are worthy of it…Every part of the world is beautiful today—
in Thoreau’s Journal:
Leaf-stem, bud, and flower are all very handsome in their place & season.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
Thermometer from 1 to 2 pm at +78º.
Neighbors come forth to view the expanding buds in their gardens.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
I am surprised by the tender yellowish green of the aspen leaf just expanded suddenly, even like a fire seen in the sun, against the dark-brown twigs of the wood, through these leaflets are yet but thinly dispersed. It is very enlivening.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
We have then flowers & the song of birds before the woods leave out—like poetry.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The season advances by fits and starts; you would not believe that there could be so many degrees to it.
in Thoreau’s Journal:
The art of life—of a poets life is—not having anything to do, to do something.
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