in Thoreau’s Journal:

It is a beautifully clear and bracing air with just enough coolness full of the memory of frosty morning––through which all things are distinctly seen & the fields look as smooth as velvet–– The fragrance of grapes is on the breeze

& the red drooping barberries sparkle amid the leaves…

the forests have a singularly rounded & bowery look clothing the hills quite down to the water’s edge & leaving no shore; the Ponds are like drops of dew amid and partly covering the leaves. So the great globe is luxuriously crowded without margin.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

The maples begin to be ripe. How beautiful when a whole maple on the edge of a swamp is like one great scarlet fruit––full of ripe juices–– A sign of the ripening––every leaf from lowest limb to topmost spire-is a-glow.

The flattened black berries of the cucumber root––with the triangular bases of its leaves tinged red beneath as a sort of cup for them.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on it but it is reported in lines of beauty—in circling dimples—as it were the constant welling up of its fountain—the gentle pulsing of its life—the heaving of its breast.

The thrills of joy & those of pain are indistinguishable. How sweet the phenomena of the lake—! Everything that moves on its surface produces a sparkle. The peaceful Pond!

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The soapwort gentian cheers & surprises with solid bulbs of blue from the shade—the stale grown purplish.

It abounds along the river—after so much has been mown.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

The Prinos berries now quite red. How densely they cover the bushes!

very handsome contrasting with the leaves.

September 17, 2016

in Thoreau’s Journal:

What produces this flashing air of autumn—a brightness as if there were not green enough to absorb the light—

September 17, 2016

in Thoreau’s Journal:

[in Maine] ….we heard faintly from far down the stream what sounded like 2 strokes of a woodchopper’s axe echoing faintly and dully through the grim solitude & silence— When we told Joe of this he exclaimed “By George, Ill bet that was moose They make a sound like that.”

These sounds affected us strangely, and by their very resemblance to the stroke of an axe where they probably had so different an origin enchanted the impression of solitude & wildness.

Photo: September 8, 2016: Squam Mts, Sandwich, NH

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Ice in the pail under the pump—& quite a frost.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

The chalices of the Rhexia Virginia Deer Grass or Meadow Beauty are literally little reddish chalices now—though many still have petals.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

How earnestly and rapidly each creature, each flower, is fulfilling its part while its day lasts! Nature never lost a day, nor a moment.

As the planet in its orbit and around its axis, so do the seasons, so does time, revolve, with a rapidity inconceivable.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

This is the season of fogs.

September 12, 2015

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The purple gerardia and blue curls are interesting for their petals strewn about—beaten down by the rain— Many a brook I look into is strewn with the purple petals of the gerardia whose stalk is not obvious in the bank.

September 8, 2016:   “blue-curls” ?

in Thoreau’s Journal:

As I watch the groves on the meadow opposite our house—I see how differently they look at different hours of the day i.e. in dif. lights when the sun shines on them variously.

In the morning perchance they seem one blended mass of light green In the afternoon distinct trees appear—separated by heavy shadows—& in some places I can see quite through the grove.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

And next the redness became a sort of yellowish or fawn colored light & the sun now set fire to the edges of the broken cloud which had hung over the horizon—& they glowed like burning turf.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

While the grass is fresh the earth is in its vigor. The greenness of the grass is the best symptom or evidence of the earth’s youth or health. Perhaps it will be found that when the grass ceases to be fresh & green or after June—the birds have ceased to sing—& the fireflies too no longer in myriads sparkle in the meadows—

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 loose their freshness & soundness, & become the prey of insects & of drought.

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.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

In the woods near the top the Vib. lantanoides Hobble bush-Am. in fruit—mostly large & red but the ripe dark blue. or black like the V. nudum— what I have formerly falsely called Moose-berry.

September 5, 2016: Photo

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Some galls on the oak an inch in diameter like cast steel-soap balls–quite handsome. Some smaller and redder….

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Would it not be worth the while to devote one day each year to collecting with pains the different kinds of asters perhaps about this time—and another to the golden rods.

September 2, 2016: Photo

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

The Soapwort gentian out abundantly in Flints-Bridge Lane—ap. for a week—a surprisingly deep faintly purplish blue….it has the flowering of the sky.

The sky has descended & kissed the earth….Why come these blue flowers thus late in the year.