The last week was Indian Summer. I have lost something.
The pulsating insect Chorus of Autumn commenced tonight.
What endears Delacroix's journal to me are notes like the following -
A rather tiresome day – finally in desperation we drove over to Crowns for a snack – on our return we invited the R’s [Richters] for a visit and refreshments –
It seems I cannot bear to leave my work alone any longer —
In my day-dreaming I see all kinds of strange lands & hear strange music. This season is new to me again — The cricket chorus is strong —
The night wind blew a moonlight night across the land after the last light vanished. I dreamed of my future as I went along under the black wind-clattering trees—
The air is full of aimless spiderwebs strands, glittering silken in the late afternoon sun, swayed here + there by a fitful breeze. By this means it is that spiders weave their webs across impossible places.
A hot sultry morning—crimson sun on rising above the emerald earth, gleaming thru a leaf dotted tree—
Any sound that brings to the hearer’s mind the remembrance of some beautiful aspect of nature, some reminder of a happy event, or is in some way vitally related to the life of the hearer, is music of the divinest sort.
...This year the wheat-fields seem choked full, and are especially beautiful; in the last few days many have been cut, but some stand yet, varying in shade from almost white to rich hot orange-browns.