Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, August 5, 1916

While sitting in the flats meadow along the Beaver Creek, I listened to rain roaring on the hill to the east, though there was none where I sat — All week long I have been getting glympses of the strange dream-world that is always far beyond my reach. My weak will destroys poetry. The accumulation of the last three weeks mental striving is lost in a single unguarded moment.

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, August 5, 1916