Charles Burchfield, April 8, 1922

When I reached the harbor I was enveloped in a strange melancholy sadness that was at once painful and pleasant. I learned against the stone wall aching both physically and spiritually. The sky just above the harbor horizon was a weird cold blue for a narrow strip, then above the color was suddenly warm and smoky—The grain elevators reflected in the water as monstrous black bulks and seemed to have thoughts of their own. A rank dark odor came up from the water—From one side came the vague sounds of the city. I thought of former spring evenings & the song “Aller au bois” came to mind, bringing with it certain sadness on account of past moods that were gone forever. Then I thought of Bertha & how she represented me to the fullness & bountifulness of womanhood and I rejoiced that she was coming to me. Then a certain opening in the clouded sky reminded me of April thunderstorms when they have moved sullenly to the East, and the grandeur of old forgotten lands of the pagan gods representing natural phenomena are created and live again for a time—There are other men along the harbor talking idly and their voices have a soft mysterious sound like the voices of people downstairs when we are in bed in the sick-chamber. A train pulls out somewhere and I think of the railroad that stretches north of Sebring past old woods & brown fields—Suddenly the harbor lights came on & I left.

Charles Burchfield, April 8, 1922