in Thoreau’s Journal

The surface of the water is the place to see the Pontederia from, for now the spikes of flowers are all brought into a dense line—a heavy line of blue a foot or more in width—on one or both sides of the river. The pontederias are now in their prime—there being no withered heads, they are very freshly blue. In the sun when you are looking west they are of a violaceous blue.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

The meadows on the Turnpike are white with the meadow rue now more than ever. They are filled with it many feet high.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

The Rhixia Virginia the meadow beauty high colored, more beautiful than you remembered.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

I hear a bay wing on the wall near-by sound far away—a fainter song spar—strain somewhat— I see its open mouth & quivering throat yet can hardly believe the seemingly distant strain proceeds from it—yaw yaw / twee twee / twitter twitter-te twee twe tw tw tw & so ends with a short & rapid trill— Again I am attracted by the Clam shell reach of the river running E & W—as seen from Hubbard’s fields—now beginning to be smoothed as in the fall— First next the meadows is the broad dark green rank of pickerel weeds &c &c (Polygonum &c) then the light reflecting edging of pads—& then the smooth still cloud reflecting water.

My thoughts are driven inward—even as clouds and trees are reflected in the still smooth water— There is an inwardness even in the mosquitoes hum—while I am picking blueberries in the dank wood.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

I see a rose now in its prime by the river in the water amid the willows & button bushes—while others lower on shore are nearly out of bloom.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

A Journal. —a book that shall contain a record of all your joy—your extacy….

The northern wild red wild cherry is ripe—handsome bright red but scarcely edible—

in Thoreau’s Journal

The Green flowered lanceolate leafed orchis at azalea brook will soon flower…

 in Thoreau’s Journal

I pluck the blossom of the milkweed….& find how sweet it smells.

in Thoreau’s Journal

Northern wild red cherry ripe ap some days.

in Thoreau’s Journal

The red lily with its torrid color and sun-freckled spots, dispensing, too, with the outer garment of a calyx, its petals so open and wide apart that you can see through it in every direction, tells of hot weather.

It is of a handsome bell shape, so upright, and the flower prevails over every other part. It belongs not to spring.

in Thoreau’s Journal

Here are mulleins covering a field (the Clam shell field) where 3 years were none noticeable—but a smooth uninterrupted pasture sod, 2 years ago it was ploughed for the first time for many years & Millet & corn & potatoes planted—and now where the millet grew these mulleins have sprung up.

Who can write the history of these fields? The millet does not perpetuate itself, but the few seeds of the mullein which perchance were brought here with it, are still multiplying the race.

in Thoreau’s Journal

One of those mornings which usher in no day, but rather an endless morning, a protracted auroral season, for clouds prolong the twilight the livelong day.

Now that there is an interregnum in the blossoming of the flowers, so is there in the singing of the birds….

Be ever so little distracted, your thoughts so little confused, your engagements so few, your attention so free, your existence so mundane, that in all places and in all hours, you can hear the sound of crickets in those seasons when they are to be heard.

I can express adequately only the thought which I love to express.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

To Beck Stow’s thence to Sawmill Brook, and return by Walden. ––– Now for the shade of oaks in pastures. The witnesses attending court sit on the benches in the shade of the great elm. The cattle gather under the trees. The pewee is heard in the heat of the day, and the red-eye (?). The pure white cymes (?) of the elder are very conspicuous along the edges of meadows, contrasting with the green above and around….

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in Thoreau’s Journal:

The progress of the season is indescribable. It is growing warm again, but the warmth is different from that we have had. We lie in the shade of a locust-tree. Haymakers go by in a hay-rigging. I am reminded of berrying.

I scent the sweet fern and the dead or dry pine leaves. Cherry-birds alight on a neighboring tree. The warmth is something more normal and steady. Nature offers fruits now as well as flowers. We are have become accustomed to the summer. It has acquired a certain eternity. The earth is dry. Perhaps the sound of the locust expresses the season as well as anything. I might make a separate season of those days then the locust is heard. That is our torrid zone. The dryness and heat are necessary for the maturing of fruits.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

We may well neglect many things, provided we overlook them.

in Thoreau’s Journal

The chimaphila umbellata winter-green must have been in blossom some time. The back side of its petals “cream colored tinged with purple” which is turned towards the beholder while the face is toward the earth—is the handsomest.

It is a very pretty little chandelier of a flower fit to adorn the forest floor. Its buds are nearly as handsome (They appear long in unfolding).

 in Thoreau’s Journal

I am confident that there can be nothing so beautiful in any cultivated garden with all its varieties as this wild clump….

 in Thoreau’s Journal

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Roses are in their prime now, growing amid huckleberry bushes, ferns, and sweet ferns, especially about some dry pond hole, some paler, some more red….

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Haying has commenced….The blue flag, Iris versicolor, enlivens the meadow, and the lark sings there at sundown afar off.

 in Thoreau’s Journal

I see the columbine lingering still.

June 29, 2016: Photos