JUNE 



The air has now begun to be filled with a bluish 

 haze. These virgin shades of the year, when every- 

 thing is tender, fresh, and green, how full of prom- 

 ise ! promising bowers of shade in which heroes 

 may repose themselves. I would fain be present at 

 the birth of shadow. It takes place with the first 

 expansion of the leaves. . . . The black willows are 

 already beautiful, and the hemlocks with their 

 bead-work of new green. Are these not kingbird- 

 days, these clearer first June days, full of light, 

 when this aerial, twittering bird nutters from wil- 

 low to willow, and swings on the twigs, showing 



his white-edged tail ? 



THOREAU: Summer. 



The blue-eyed grass is one of the most beauti- 

 ful of flowers. It might have been famous from 

 Proserpine down. It will bear to be praised by 

 poets. 



THOREAU: Summer. 



A few fireflies in the meadow. Do they shine, 

 though invisibly, by day? Is their candle lighted 

 by day ? It is not nightfall till the whip-poor-wills 

 begin to sing. ... I heard a partridge drumming 

 to-night as late as nine o'clock. What a singularly 

 space-penetrating and filling sound! Why am I 



never nearer to its source ? 



THOREAU: Summer. 



