Thoreau's Journal: 06-Jun-1857

This is June, the month of grass and leaves. The deciduous trees are investing the evergreens and revealing how dark they are. Already the aspens are trembling again, and a new summer is offered me. I feel a little fluttered in my thoughts, as if I might be too late. Each season is but an infinitesimal point. It no sooner comes than it is gone. It has no duration. It simply gives a tone and hue to my thought.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

And hey June
why did you have to come
why did you have to come around
so soon

I wasn't ready
for all this nature
The terrible green green grass,
and violent blooms of flowered dresses
and afternoons that make me sleepy