september 1st

on this first of the september days an egg shell blue morning that reminds me of mornings through this summer on which skies supported towering cloud-pillars that softened and spread through the day eventually resolving into a deep-blue sky washed with salmon streamers of high cloud. yesterday- a sunday - nominally the end-day of the summer holidays - a day i spent with my son and daughter - i got to thinking of the moments where eternity and the singularity of my self as a soul free-floating in the infinity of everything is somehow compressed or obfuscated into steven . . . . and walt whitman crept into the thinking (of course!) with his sage, beautiful and insightful honest-beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt words . . . .

“july 22nd, 1878.—living down in the country again. a wonderful conjunction of all that goes to make those sometime miracle-hours after sunset—so near and yet so far. perfect, or nearly perfect days, i notice, are not so very uncommon; but the combinations that make perfect nights are few, even in a life time. we have one of those perfections to-night. sunset left things pretty clear; the larger stars were visible soon as the shades allow’d. a while after 8, three or four great black clouds suddenly rose, seemingly from different points, and sweeping with broad swirls of wind but no thunder, underspread the orbs from view everywhere, and indicated a violent heat-storm. but without storm, clouds, blackness and all, sped and vanish’d as suddenly as they had risen; and from a little after 9 till 11 the atmosphere and the whole show above were in that state of exceptional clearness and glory just alluded to. in the northwest turned the great dipper with its pointers round the cynosure. a little south of east the constellation of the scorpion was fully up, with red antares glowing in its neck; while dominating, majestic jupiter swam, an hour and a half risen, in the east—(no moon till after 11.) a large part of the sky seem’d just laid in great splashes of phosphorus. you could look deeper in, farther through, than usual; the orbs thick as heads of wheat in a field. not that there was any special brilliancy either—nothing near as sharp as i have seen of keen winter nights, but a curious general luminousness throughout to sight, sense, and soul. the latter had much to do with it. (i am convinced there are hours of nature, especially of the atmosphere, mornings and evenings, address’d to the soul. night transcends, for that purpose, what the proudest day can do.) now, indeed, if never before, the heavens declared the glory of god. It was to the full the sky of the bible, of arabia, of the prophets, and of the oldest poems. there, in abstraction and stillness, (i had gone off by myself to absorb the scene, to have the spell unbroken,) the copiousness, the removedness, vitality, loose-clear-crowdedness, of that stellar concave spreading overhead, softly absorb’d into me, rising so free, interminably high, stretching east, west, north, south—and i, though but a point in the centre below, embodying all.

as if for the first time, indeed, creation noiselessly sank into and through me its placid and untellable lesson, beyond—o, so infinitely beyond!—anything from art, books, sermons, or from science, old or new. the spirit’s hour—religion’s hour—the visible suggestion of god in space and time—now once definitely indicated, if never again. the untold pointed at—the heavens all paved with it. the milky way, as if some superhuman symphony, some ode of universal vagueness, disdaining syllable and sound—a flashing glance of deity, address’d to the soul. all silently—the indescribable night and stars—far off and silently.”