Last night in the half sleep, I imagined I had gone in the boat to a corner of the lake (I had been here in the morning).
Reading at times the "Story of Sibelius" by Elliott Arnold again. And in the late evening news of imminent declaration of war by our country against Finland. It seems to me this catastrophe could somehow be avoided.
A fresh brilliantly clear day – a cool east wind. It tips the top branches of trees, which catch the early sunlight, forming pale yellowish green tops against the sky.
Trees have a lacy edge at sunset time - at twilight, they commence to thicken - the leaves stand out clearly in partly isolated and massed rhythm.
Demounted “Song to Morning” and “Cicada Woods” for remounting –
Locusts become musical at twilight. To how few people is the metallic rasp of a locust music.
While an artist is still working on a theme it fills his whole mind so much he lives in that world – but once he brings it to conclusion, he must leave that world, and find another to dream in – it is not always easy.
To see, in the upturned face of a child directed toward oneself, a look of complete trust, liking and admiration is to me one of the finest and at the same time most disconcerting experiences.
That low-toned shop-whistle! – that brings to mind my boyhood summer days, in particular a long dusty road to the north of Greene – and noontime, and fields of butter-cups.
The afternoon – The air becomes more stagnant – the ground hot – the sky turns to a sultry violet; hasty clouds – the day dies endlessly –