Truth, Goodness, Beauty— those celestial thrins,
Continually are born; e'en now the Universe,
With thousand throats, and eke with greener smiles,
Its joy confesses at their recent birth.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, June 14, 1838

Sphere Music— Some sounds seem to reverberate along the plain, and then settle to earth again like dust; such are Noise, Discord, Jargon. But such only as spring heavenward, and I may catch from steeples and hilltops in their upward course, which are the more refined parts of the former, are the true sphere music— pure, unmixed music— in which no wail mingles.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, August 5, 1838

Friends— They are like air bubbles on water, hastening to flow together. History tells of Orestes and Pylades, Damon and Pythias, but why should not we put to shame those old reserved worthies by a community of such?

Constantly, as it were through a remote skylight, I have glimpses of a serene friendship-land, and know the better why brooks murmur and violets grow. This conjunction of souls, like waves which met and break, subsides also backward over things, and gives all a fresh aspect.

I would live henceforth with some gentle soul such a life as may be conceived, double for variety, single for harmony— two, only that we might admire at our oneness— one, because indivisible. Such community to be a pledge of holy living. How could aught unworthy be admitted into our society? To listen with one ear to each summer sound, to behold with one eye each summer scene, our visual rays so to meet and mingle with the object as to be one bent and doubled; with two tongues to be wearied, and thought to spring ceaselessly from a double fountain.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, January 26, 1840

Poetry— No definition of poetry is adequate unless it be poetry itself. The most accurate analysis by the rarest wisdom is yet insufficient, and the poet will instantly prove it false by setting aside its requistions. It is indeed all that we do not know.

The poet does not need to see how meadows are something else than earth, grass, and water, but how they are thus much. He does not need discover that potato blows are as beautiful as violets, as the farmer thinks, but only how good potato blows are.

The poem is drawn out from under the feet of the poet, his whole weight has rested on this ground. It has a logic more severe than the logician's. You might as well think to go in pursuit of the rainbow, and embrace it on the next hill, as to embrace the whole of poetry even in thought.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, January 26, 1840

Aeschylus had a clear eye for the commonest things. His genius was only an enlarged common sense. He adverts with chaste severity to all natural facts. His sublimity is Greek sincerity and simpleness, naked wonder which mythology had not helped to explain... Whatever the common eye sees at all and expresses as best it may, he sees uncommonly and describes with rare completeness. The multitude that thronged the theatre could no doubt go along with him to the end... The social condition of genius is the same in all ages. Aeschylus was undoubtedly alone and without sympathy in his simple reverence for the mystery of the universe.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, January 29, 1840

Have no mean hours, but be grateful for every hour, and accept what it brings. The reality will make any sincere record respectable. No day will have been wholly misspent, if one sincere, thoughtful page has been written. Let the daily tide leave some deposit on these pages, as it leaves sand and shells on the shore. So much increase of terra firma. this may be a calendar of the ebbs and flows of the soul; and on these sheets as a beach, the waves may cast up pearls and seaweed.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, July 6, 1840

I would live henceforth with some gentle soul such a life as may be conceived, double for variety, single for harmony— two, only that we might admire at our oneness— one, becuse indivisible. Such community to be a pledge of holy living. How could aught unworthy be admitted into our society? to listen with one ear to each summer sound, to behold with one eye each summer scene, our visual rays so to meet and mingle with the object as to be one bent and doubled; with two tongues to be wearied, and thought to spring ceaselessly from a double fountain.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, January 26, 1840

Who looks in the sun will see no light else; but also he will see no shadow. Our life revolves unceasingly, but the centre is ever the same, and the wise will regard only the seasons of the soul.

The poet concludes with same trust he began with, and jeers at the blindness which could inquire. But our sphinx is so wise as to put no riddle that can be answered. It is a great presumption to answer conclusively a question which any sincerity has put. the wise answer no questions— nor do they ask them. She silences his jeers with the conviction that she is the eye-beam of his eye. Our proper eye never quails before an answer. To rest in a reply, as a response of the oracle, that is error; but to suspect time's reply, because we would not degrade one of God's meanings to be intelligible to us, that is wisdom. We shall never arrive at his meaning, but it will ceaselessly arrive to us. The truth we seek with ardor and devotion will not reward us with a cheap acqusition. We run unhesitatingly in our career, not fearing to pass any goal of truth in our haste. We career toward her eternally. A truth rested in stands for all the vice of an age, and revolution comes kindly to restore health.

The cunning Sphinx, who had been hushed into stony silence and repose in us, arouses herself and detects a mystery in all things— in infancy, the moon, fire, flowers, sea, mountain— and, in he spirit of the old fable, declares proudly—

“Who telleth one of my meanings
Is master of all I am.”

When some Oedipus has solved one of her enigmas, she will do dash her head against a rock. You may find this as enigmatical as the Sphinx's riddle. Indeed, I doubt if she could solve it herself.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, March 10, 1841

I would live henceforth with some gentle soul such a life as may be conceived, double for variety, single for harmony— two, only that we might admire at our oneness— one, becuse indivisible. Such community to be a pledge of holy living. How could aught unworthy be admitted into our society? to listen with one ear to each summer sound, to behold with one eye each summer scene, our visual rays so to meet and mingle with the object as to be one bent and doubled; with two tongues to be wearied, and thought to spring ceaselessly from a double fountain.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, January 26, 1840

Butter-and-eggs, which blossomed several months ago, still freshly in bloom... I am always exhilarated, as were the early voyagers, by the sight of sassafras (Laurus Sassafras). the green leaves bruised have the fragrance of lemons and a thousand spices. To the same order belong cinnamon, cassia, camphor. Hickory is said to be an Indian name. The seed vessel of the sweet-briar is a very beautiful glossy elliptical fruit, it is thrice crowned.

— Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), Journal, October 11, 1850

Yesterday afternoon [Oct. 11], saw by the brook-side above Emerson's the dwarf primrose in blossom, the Norway cinquefoil and fall dandelions which are now drying up, the houstonia, buttercups, small goldenrods, and various asters, more or less purplish...

I love very well this cloudy afternoon, so sober and favorable to reflection after so many bright ones. What if the clouds shut out the heavens, provided they concentrate my thoughts and make a more celestial heaven below! I hear the crickets plainer; I wander less in my thoughts, am less dissipated; am aware how shallow was the current of my thoughts before. Deep streams are dark, as if there were a cloud in their sky; shallow ones are bright and sparkling, reflecting the sun from their bottoms. The very wind on my cheek seems more fraught with meaning. Many maples around the edges of the meadow are now quite bare, like smoke.

I seem to be more constantly merged in nature; my intellectual life is more obedient to nature than formerly, but perchance less obedient to spirit. I have less memorable seasons. I exact less of myself. I am getting used to my meanness, getting to accept my low estate. O if I could be discontented with myself! If I could feel anguish at each descent!

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, Sunday, October 12, 1851

Most leaves are already somewhat faded and withered. Their tints are not so bright. the chestnut leaves already rustle with a great noise as you walk through the woods, as they lie light, firm, and crisp. Now the chestnuts are rattling out. the burs are gaping and showing the plump nuts. They fill the ruts in the road, and are abundant amid the fallen leaves in the midst of the wood. The jays scream, and the red squirrels scold, while you are clubbing and shaking the trees. Now it is true autumn; all things are crisp and ripe.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, Monday, October 11, 1852

Sassafras leaves are a rich yellow now and falling fast. They come down in showers on the least touching of the tree. I was obliged to cut a small one while surveying the Bedford road today. What singularly and variously formed leaves! for the most part three very regular long lobes, but also some simple leaves; but here is one shaped just like a hand or a mitten with a thumb. They next turn a dark cream-color.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, October 11, 1853

The Indian summer continues. Solidagos now generally show woolly heads along the fences and brooks...
Bay-wing sparrows numrous. In the woods I hear the note of the jay, a metallic, clanging sound, sometimes a mew. Refer any strange note to him. The scent of decaying leaves after the wet fall is a very agreeable fragrance on all sides in the woods now, like a garret fll of herbs... The shrub oak plain is now in the perfection of its coloring, the red of young oaks with the green of spring birches intermixed. A rich rug. It is perfect Indian summer, a thick haze forming wreaths in the near horizon. The sun is almost shorn of its rays now at mid-afternoon, and there is only a sheeny reflection from the river... A cuckoo is heard.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, October 11, 1856

River lower than before since winter at least; very low. Another frost last night, although with fog, and this afternoon the maple and other leaves strew the water, and it is almost a leaf harvest. I see some fine clear yellows from the Rhus Toxicodendron on the bank by the hemlocks and beyond... This is the seventh day of glorious weather. Perhaps these might be called Harvest Days. Within the week most of the apples have been gathered; potatoes are being dug; corn is still left in the fields, though the stalks are being carried in. Others are ditching and getting out mud and cutting up bushes along fences— what is called "brushing up"— burning brush, etc. These are cricket days.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, Sunday, October 11, 1857

The autumnal tints have not been so bright as usual this year, but why it is hard to say. The summer has been peculiarly cool, as well as wet, and it may be that the leaves have been the more inclined to decay before coming to maturity. Also, apparently, many leaves are killed by the mere frosts before ripening, the locust for instance— and the frost came early this year— just as melons and squashes before they have turned yellow; i.e., the leaves fall while they are still green... Witch-hazel, grape, smooth sumach, and common hazel are partly fallen— some of the first-named wholly— yet full of bloom. It is a cool seat under the witch-hazel in full bloom, which has lost its leaves! The leaves are greenish and brownish yellow. White pines are apparently ready to fall. Some are much paler brown than others... See a white-throat sparrow? Yes.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, October 11, 1858

Looking under large oaks, black and white, the acorns appear to have fallen or been gathered by squirrels, etc. I see in many distant places stout twigs (black or scarlet oak) three or four inches long which have gnawed off by the squirrels, with four to seven acorns on each, and left on the ground. These twigs have been gnawed off on each side of the nuts in order to make them more portable, I suppose. The nuts all abstracted and sides of the cups broken to get them out. The note of the chickadee, heard now in cooler weather and above many fallen leaves, has a new significance. There was a very severe frost this morning (ground stiffened), probably a chestnut-opening frost, a season-ripener, opener of the burs that inclose the Indian summer. Such is the cold of early or middle October. The leaves and weeds had that stiff, hoary appearance.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, October 11, 1859

There is a remarkably abundant crop of white oak acorns this fall, also a fair crop of red oak acorns; but not of scarlet and black, very few of them. Which is as well for the squirrel. The acorns are now in the very midst of their fall. The white oak acorn is about the prettiest of ours. They are a glossy hazel (while the red and black are more or less downy at first) and of various forms— some nearly spherical but commonly oblong and pointed, some more slender oval or elliptical; and of various shades of brown— some almost black, but generally a wholesome hazel.

The season is as favorable for pears as for apples. R. W. E.'s garden is strewn with them. They are not so handsome as apples— are of more earthy and homely colors— yet they are of a wholesome color enough... I hold in my hand a Bonne Louise [pear] which is covered with minute brown specks or dots one twelfth to one sixteenth [of an inch] apart, largest and most developed on the sunny side, quite regular and handsome, as if they were the termination or operculum of pores which had burst in the very thin pellicle of the fruit, producing a slight roughness to the touch. Each of these little ruptures, so to call them, is in form a perfect star with five rays; so that, if the apple is higher-colored, reflecting the sun, on the duller surface of this pear the whole firmament with its stars shines forth. They whisper of the happy stars under whose influence they have grown and matured. It is not the case with all of them, but only the more perfect specimen.

Pears, it is truly said, are less poetic than apples. They have neither the beauty nor the fragrance of apples, but their excellence is in their flavor, which speaks to a grosser sense. They are glouts-morceaux. Hence, while children dream of apples, ex-judges realize pears. They are named after emperors and kings and queens and dukes and duchesses. I fear I shall have to wait till we get to pears with American names, which a republican can swallow. Looking through a more powerful glass, those little brown dots are stars with from four to six rays— commonly five— where a little wart-like prominence (perhaps the end of a pore or a thread) appears to have burst through the very thin pellicle and burst it into so many rays.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, October 11, 1860