A. Bronson Alcott writes in his journal:
Concord, Mass. Thoreau begins to survey land on Lexington Road for John B. Moore (A Catalog of Thoreau’s Surveys in the Concord Free Public Library, 10; Henry David Thoreau papers. Special Collections, Concord (Mass.) Free Public Library).
Thoreau writes in his journal:
The river has risen again, and, instead of ice and snow, there is water over the ice on the meadows . . . (Journal, 6:113).
Thoreau writes in his journal:
A fine, dear day. There is a glare of light from the fresh, unstained surface of the snow, so that it pains the eyes to travel toward the sun.
I go across Walden. My shadow is very blue. It is especially blue when there is a bright sunlight on pure white snow. It suggests that there may be something divine, something celestial, in me.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Returning, I saw a fox on the railroad, at the crossing below the shanty site, eight or nine rods from me . . . (Journal, 8:175-177).
Thoreau also writes to Calvin Greene:
I forwarded to you by mail on the 31st of January a copy of my “Week,” post paid, which I trust that you have received. I thank you heartily for the expression of your interest in “Walden” and hope that you will not be disappointed by the “Week.” You ask how the former has been received. It has found an audience of excellent character, and quite numerous, some 2000 copies having been dispersed. I should consider it a greater success to interest one wise and earnest soul, than a million unwise & frivolous.
You may rely on it that you have the best of me in my books, and that I am not worth seeing personally—the stuttering, blundering, clodhopper that I am. Even poetry, you know, is the one sense of an infinite brag & exaggeration. Not that I do not stand on all that I have written—but what am I to the truth I feebly utter!
I like the name of your country. May it grow men as sturdy as its trees. Methinks I hear your flute echo amid the oaks. It is not yours too a good place to study theology? I hope that you will ere long recover your turtle-dove, and that it will bring you glad tidings out of that heaven which you disappeared.
Yrs Sincerely
Henry D. Thoreau
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
I see that Wheildon’s pines are rocking and showing their silvery under sides as last spring,—their first awakening, as it were.
P.M.—The river, where open, is very black, as usual when the waves run high, for each wave casts a shadow . . .
Thoreau writes in reply to Ticknor & Co.’s letter of 8 February. Ticknor & Co. replies 16 February (The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 237-238).
George Moore writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes his poem, “The Fisher’s Son,” in his journal:
My years are like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean’s edge as I can go ;
My tardy steps its waves do oft o’erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow .
Infinite work my hands find there to do,
Gathering the relics which the waves upeast ;
Each storm doth scour the deep for something new,
And every time the strangest is the last . . .
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