Charles Burchfield, Journals, February 11, 1915

This is a spring morning. Spring is merely a state of the mind. the year goes around devoid of seasons for some, while others must consult the almanac. Rain is in the air. The snow is slowly settling into blue ice. The sky is a queer mixture—here dappled, there long stretches of misty expanses, a delightful pattern of yellow & blue. It is not a dark morning; if we do not look eastward, the whole eastern sky seems lit up by the sun. Out of the southwest comes the wind in puffs and lulls, and the trees wave back and forth violently against the sky and are next motionless and instantly the wind is heard roaring far to one side. Such a wind can only belong to Spring. There is a sense of blowing, far far away as it rushes into the sunlit east and the desire to go with it. The air is full of sounds—trains seem to roar on all sides. A train’s whistle startles & stirs one as does a bird’s song.

The distant trees are full of blue and violet, against which the waving closer trees form a golden blur. When but a small boy Spring was the only season I observed the in the spirit of a poet. From that period I remember a song (My Sweet Italian Daughter,—ludicrous!) that I whistled much as I rambled in search of the first hepaticas & spring beauties, and I have now but to whistle the tune to put myself into Spring.

Charles Burchfield , February 11, 1915