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.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

These meadows, like all the rest are one great field of ice a foot thick, to their utmost verge far up the hillsides and into the swamps, sloping upward there, without water under it, resting almost everywhere on the ground, a great undulating field of ice, rolling, prairie-like, the earth wearing this dry icy shield or armor, which shines in the sun.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

It is a very pleasant and warm day, the finest yet, with considerable coolness in the air, however. Winter still.

The air is beautifully clear, and through it I love to trace at a distance the roofs and outlines of sober-colored farm-houses amid the woods.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Though somewhat cool it has been remarkably pleasant today—& the sun sparkles where the river is open are very cheerful to behold.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

This restless and now swollen stream has burst its icy fetters…. If rivers come out of their prison thus bright and immortal, shall not I, too, resume my spring life with joy and hope? Have I no hopes to sparkle on the surface of life’s current?

It is worth the while to have our faith revived by seeing where a river swells and eddies about a half-buried rock.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

A sharp cutting air— This is a pretty good winter morning however— Not one of the rarer. There are from time to time mornings—both in summer & winter when especially the world seems to begin anew—beyond which memory need not go—for not behind them is yesterday and our past life—when as in the morning of a hoar frost there are visible the effects of a certain creative energy—the world has visibly been recreated in the night—mornings of creation I call them.

In the midst of these marks of a creative energy recently active—while the sun is rising with more than usual splendor I look back—I look back for the era of this creation not into the night but to a dawn for which no man every rose early enough.

A morning which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation—where crystallizations are fresh & unmelted. It is the poet’s hour. Mornings when men are new born—men who have the seeds of life in them. It should be part of my religion to abroad then. This is not one of those mornings—but a clear cold airy winter day.

It is surprising how much room there is in nature, —if man will follow his proper path…

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Measure your health by your sympathy with morning and spring. If there is no response in you to the awakening of nature, if the prospect of an early morning walk does not banish sleep, if the warble of the first bluebird does not thrill you, know that the morning and spring of your life are past. Thus may you feel your pulse.