The gallery manager was busy

“Already, by the first of September, I had seen two or three small maples turned scarlet across the pond, beneath where the white stems of three aspens diverged, at the point of a promontory, next the water. Ah, many a tale their color told! And gradually from week to week the character of each tree came out, and it admired itself reflected in the smooth mirror of the lake. Each morning the manager of this gallery substituted some new picture, distinguished by more brilliant or harmonious coloring, for the old upon the walls.’’

— From Walden, by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

'Drip drip the trees'

My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.

Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.

Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?

Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.

Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
For now I've business with this drop of dew,
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower--
I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.

This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
And violets quite overtop my shoes.

And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.

I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment's hem.

Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.

— “Summer Rain’’, by Henry David Thoreau (1817-62)

'Eaten far in Concord'

Walden Pond, in Concord, Mass., most famous for its association with Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862), whose two years living in a cabin on its shore provided the foundation for Walden; or, Life in the Woods.

Comestible, comprehensible.

  Heaped up in digestible portions

Thoreau had eaten far in Concord

   And still this knoll

With its floor of puce-colored leaves

under May’s green mist

feeds the visitor….’’

-- From “Walden Once More,’’ by Robert Siegel (1939-2012), American poet and novelist. He spent much of his life in his native Mideast but in his later years he lived in South Berwick, Maine

Flocks of rocks

Mt. Katahdin (5 ,267 feet high), in Baxter State Park, Maine. The park was a gift to the people of Maine from Gov. Percival P. Baxter, who used his personal wealth over a 32-year period to buy and donate the original 201,018 acres of the park, starting with a 6,000-acre purchase in 1930 from the Great Northern Paper Co. Since Governor Baxter's death, in 1969, the park has been expanded to a total of 209,501 acres, including the 2006 addition of a parcel of 4,678 acres. The park includes gorgeous Katahdin Lake. Hiking along the  famous "Knife Edge'' of the mountain is not for the faint of heart.

On the Appalachian Trail near the summit of Mt. Katahdin, the highest mountain in Maine, and the northern terminus of the trail.

"Having slumped, scrambled, rolled, bounced, and walked, by turns, over this scraggy country, I arrived upon a side-hill, or rather side-mountain, where rocks, gray, silent rocks, were the flocks and herds that pastured, chewing a rocky cud at sunset. They looked at me with hard gray eyes, without a bleat or a low.''

-- Henry David Thoreau, in  The Maine Woods

'Constant mirage'

Dunes at Sandy Neck, in Barnstable, Cape Cod.

"Instead of fences, the earth was sometimes thrown up into a slight ridge. My companion compared it to the rolling prairies of Illinois. In the storm of wind and rain that raged when we traversed it, it no doubt appeared more vast and desolate than it really is.....A solitary traveler whom we saw perambulating in the distance loomed like a giant....Indeed, to an inlander, the Cape landscape is a constant mirage.''

Henry David Thoreau, in Cape Cod (1865)

Get out into it!

"Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up. Deal with brute nature. Be cold and hungry and weary.''

-- Henry David Thoreau

The Blizzard of March 11-14, 1888, paralyzed much of the Northeast.

'Drip drip the trees'

"My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read, 
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, 
And will not mind to hit their proper targe. 

Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, 
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again, 
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, 
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men. 

Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, 
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, 
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown? 

Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, 
If red or black the gods will favor most, 
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, 
Struggling to heave some rock against the host. 

Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, 
For now I've business with this drop of dew, 
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower-- 
I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. 

This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use. 
A clover tuft is pillow for my head, 
And violets quite overtop my shoes. 

And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, 
And gently swells the wind to say all's well; 
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, 
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. 

I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; 
But see that globe come rolling down its stem, 
Now like a lonely planet there it floats, 
And now it sinks into my garment's hem. 

Drip drip the trees for all the country round, 
And richness rare distills from every bough; 
The wind alone it is makes every sound, 
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below. 

For shame the sun will never show himself, 
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so; 
My dripping locks--they would become an elf, 
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go. ''

-- "The Summer Rain,'' by Henry David Thoreau