in Thoreau’s Journal:

As soon as those spring mornings arrive in which the birds sing,

I am sure to be an early riser….

in Thoreau’s Journal:

It is a genial and reassuring day; the mere warmth of the west wind amounts almost to balminess. The softness of the air mollifies our own dry and congealed substance. I sit down by a wall to see if I can muse again.

We become, as it were, pliant and ductile again to strange but memorable influences; we are led a little way by our genius. We are affected like the earth, and yield to the elemental tenderness. Winter breaks up within us. The frost is coming out of me, and I am heaved like the road. Accumulated masses of ice and snow dissolve, and thoughts like a freshet, pour down unwonted channels.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

It is remarkable by what a gradation of days which we call pleasant and warm, beginning in the last of February, we come at last to real summer warmth. At first a sunny, calm, serene winter day is pronounced spring, or reminds us of it.

And even the first pleasant spring day, perhaps, we walk with our great-coat buttoned up, and gloves on.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

These spring impressions (as of the apparent waking up of the meadow) are not repeated the same year, at least not with the same force, for the next day the same phenomenon does not surprise us, our appetite has lost its edge. The other day the face of the meadow wore a peculiar appearance, as if it were beginning to wake up under the influence of the southwest wind and warm sun, but it cannot again this year present precisely that appearance to me.

 I have taken a step forward to a new position and must see something else. We perceive and are affected by changes too subtle to be described.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

When I get two thirds up the hill, I look round, and am for the hundredth time surprised by the landscape of the river valley and the horizon with its distant blue-scalloped rim…The wind blows strong but warm from west by north (so that I have to hold my paper tight while I write this), making the copses creak and roar, but the sharp tinkle of a song-sparrow is heard through it all.

But, ah! the needles of the pine, how they shine…Every third tree is lit with the most subdued but clear, ethereal light, as if it were the most delicate frost-work in a winter morning, reflecting no heat, but only light. And as they rock and wave in the strong wind, even a mile off, the light courses up and down them as over a field of grain…At sight of this my spirit is like a lit tree.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

No mortal is alert enough to be present at the first dawn of the spring, but he will presently discover some evidence that vegetation had awaked some days at least before.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Before sunrise.

With what infinite and unwearied expectation and proclamation the cocks usher in every dawn, as if there had never been one before…

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Nature is constantly original and inventing new patterns, like a mechanic in his shop.

Photo March 15, 2017

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

There seems, however, to be little seed left in them. This, then, is reason enough why these withered stems still stand, that they may raise these granaries above the snow for the use of the snowbirds.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The various hues of brown were most beautifully blended, so that the earth appeared covered with the softest and most harmoniously spotted and tinted fur coat…

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Now is the season to look for Indian relics—the sandy fields being just bared— I stand on the high lichen covered & colored (greenish) hill beyond Abner Buttrick’s— I go further east & look across the meadow to Bedford—& see that peculiar scenery of March—in which I have taken so many rambles—The earth just bare & beginning to be dry—the snow lying on the N sides of hills—the gray deciduous trees & the green pines soughing in the March wind—they look now as if deserted by a companion—(the snow) When you walk over bare lichen-clad hills—just beginning to be dry—& look afar over the blue water on the meadows—You are beginning to break up your winter quarters—& plan adventures for the new year— The scenery is like—yet unlike November— You have the wind—a peculiarly soft moist air or else a raw wind

Now is the reign of water….It is astonishing how soon the ice has gone out of the river. But it still lies on the bottom of the meadow.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

That man is the richest whose pleasures are the cheapest.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I am not aware of growth of any plant yet, unless it be the peeping out of the willow catkins. They have crept out further from under the scales, and looking closely I detect a little redness along the twigs even now.

You are always surprised by the sight of the first spring bird or insect. They seem premature, and there is no such evidence of spring as themselves, so that they literally fetch the year about.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Boiled a handful of rock tripe (Umbilicaria Muhlenbergii) (which Tuckerman says “was the favorite rock tripe in Franklin’s journey”) for more than an hour.

It produced a black puff, looking somewhat like boiled tea-leaves, and was insipid, like rice or starch. The dark water in which it was boiled had a bitter taste, and was slightly gelatinous. The puff was not positively disagreeable to the palate.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

At the end of winter there is a season in which we are daily expecting spring,

and finally a day when it arrives.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

For what a man does abroad by night requires and implies more deliberate energy than what he is encouraged to do in the sunshine….The stillness is more impressive than any sound. The moon, the stars, the trees, the snow, the sand when bare, a monumental stillness whose voice must be supplied by thought…

How much a silent mankind might suggest!

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The river is frozen more solidly than during the past winter, and for the first time for a year I could cross it in most places. I did not once cross it the past winter, though by choosing a safe place I might have done so without doubt once or twice. But I have had no river walks before.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I must not forget the lichen-painted boles of the beeches. So round even to the red-bridge.

Where the red-maple buds are already much expanded—foretelling summer—though our eyes see only winter as yet— As I sit under their boughs looking into the sky—I suddenly see the myriad black dots of the expanded buds against the sky—

Their sap is flowing. The elm buds too I find are expanded though on earth are no signs of spring.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I find a place on the S side of this rocky hill where the snow is melted & the bare grey rock appears covered with mosses & lichens & beds of oak leaves in the hollows—where I can sit—& an invisible flame & smoke seems to ascend from the leaves & the sun shines with a genial warmth & you can imagine the hum of bees amid flowers—that is a near approach to summer. A summer heat reflected from the dry leaves which reminds you of the sweet fern & those summer afternoons which are longer than a winter day. Though you sit on a mere oasis in the snow….

Man is not the final judge of the humblest work—though it be piling wood.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Hear that there was a flock of geese in the river last night. See and hear song sparrows to-day; probably here for several days.

It is an exceedingly warm and pleasant day. The snow is suddenly all gone except heels, and — what is more remarkable — the frost is generally out of the ground, e.g. in our garden, for the reason that it has not been in it. The snow came December 4th, before the ground was frozen to any depth, has been usually deep, and the ground has not been again exposed till now. Hence, though we have had a little very cold weather and a good deal of steady cold, the ground generally has not been frozen.