Feb. 22.—Last night and to-day rainy and thick, till mid-afternoon, when the wind chopp’d round, the clouds swiftly drew off like curtains, the clear appear’d, and with it the fairest,
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Feb. 10.—The first chirping, almost singing, of a bird to-day. Then I noticed a couple of honey-bees spirting and humming about the open window in the sun. Feb. 11.—In the
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Even as a boy, I had the fancy, the wish, to write a piece, perhaps a poem, about the sea-shore—that suggesting, dividing line, contact, junction, the solid marrying the liquid—that
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Nov. 14.—As I sit here by the creek, resting after my walk, a warm languor bathes me from the sun. No sound but a cawing of crows, and no motion
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Such a play of colors and lights, different seasons, different hours of the day—the lines of the far horizon where the faint-tinged edge of the landscape loses itself in the
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Sept. 20.—Under an old black oak, glossy and green, exhaling aroma—amid a grove the Albic druids might have chosen—envelop’d in the warmth and light of the noonday sun, and swarms{10}
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