...I love the approach of winter, the retreat of winter, the change from snow to rain & vice-versa; the decay of vegetation; and the resurgence of plant-life in the spring —

I awoke early enough to see the sun-rise. It startled me half out of bed. Up away from the horizon was a long cloud bar, flaming salmon in color, against a blue green sky.

I had an odd dream of a rainstorm this morning. I was at home and as I saw it approaching, I was ever on the point of running for my sketch book but never did, fascinated as I was.

I wandered over barren hills on a warm January night – I cried out to my Creator in the agony of my base worthlessness – a mysterious presence comforted me from out of the air –

We have been having real old-fashioned winter these days. Thursday night we all went to the picture-show.

To Albright School – icy driving. Only four showed up (Solowski, Barrett, Levitt & Sulz). I am both angered and bored and embarrassed.

The analytical mind kills poetry. The rainbow was a supernatural event until someone ex­plained it that falling rain broke up the sunlight into colors. Yet it is ignorance not to know it.

Read Colin Dabkowski's review of Charles Burchfiield In His Own Words in today's Gusto.

C. Arthur Burchfield, the son of painter Charles E. Burchfield, died Thursday in his Poughkeepsie home, exactly 46 years to the day after his father died. He was 83.

Sparrows, I have just found out, are sometimes given over to quarreling. Yesterday and today, I have not put crumbs on the sill as the window was frozen tight...

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