Journal 02, 1850-September 15, 1851: The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, Volume 08 (of 20)Thoreau, Henry David
Religion
Journal 02, 1850-September 15, 1851: The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, Volume 08 (of 20)
Thoreau, Henry David
Authors, American -- 19th century -- Diaries; Thoreau, Henry David, 1817-1862 -- Diaries
_July 11. Friday._ At 7.15 P. M. with W. E. C. go forth to see the
moon, the glimpses of the moon. We think she is not quite full; we
can detect a little flatness on the eastern side. Shall we wear thick
coats? The day has been warm enough, but how cool will the night be?
It is not sultry, as the last night. As a general rule, it is best to
wear your thickest coat even in a July night. Which way shall we walk?
Northwest, that we may see the moon returning? But on that side the
river prevents our walking in the fields, and on other accounts that
direction is not so attractive. We go toward Bear Garden Hill. The sun
is setting. The meadow-sweet has bloomed. These dry hills and pastures
are the places to walk by moonlight. The moon is silvery still, not
yet inaugurated. The tree-tops are seen against the amber west. I seem
to see the outlines of one spruce among them, distinguishable afar.
My thoughts expand and flourish most on this barren hill, where in
the twilight I see the moss spreading in rings and prevailing over the
short, thin grass, carpeting the earth, adding a few inches of green to
its circle annually while it dies within.
As we round the sandy promontory, we try the sand and rocks with our
hands. The sand is cool on the surface but warmer a few inches beneath,
though the contrast is not so great as it was in May. The larger
rocks are perceptibly warm. I pluck the blossom of the milkweed in the
twilight and find how sweet it smells. The white blossoms of the Jersey
tea dot the hillside, with the yarrow everywhere. Some woods are black
as clouds; if we knew not they were green by day, they would appear
blacker still. When we sit, we hear the mosquitoes hum. The woodland
paths are not the same by night as by day; if they are a little grown
up, the eye cannot find them, but must give the reins to the feet, as
the traveller to his horse. So we went through the aspens at the base
of the Cliffs, their round leaves reflecting the lingering twilight on
the one side, the waxing moonlight on the other. Always the path was
unexpectedly open.
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