Charles Burchfield, Journals, December 4th, 1942

A dream last night:

                A few days after Christmas; a darkish threatening day; rain begins to fall, and with a rising wind, the air grows colder. I am standing on a wide open veranda, about to depart for work (in an office) – as the rain falls it freezes and soon the porch railing, and the brick sidewalks are glistening with wet ice. I anticipate with dread the walk to work over the slipping streets, but nevertheless I start out.

         A moment of obscurity and then in some unaccountable manner I find myself near a sandy road in the country, at the entrance of a cemetery. The rain has ceased, the air is warmer, and the sun is beginning to break thru the loose misty cloud masses. I now see with mingled astonishment and delight, that, in spite of the season, many trees still retain their autumn leaves, while others are still green (tho faded somewhat) I revel in the sight a few moments (vivid is the memory of a glympse of sunlit green trees seen thru the arches of an elaborate gateway to the cemetery). I now turn and enter the cemetery, walking over a driveway of fine crushed stone, which winds upward. The cemetery is situated on a rounded hilly elevation. One of the caretakers close at hand is gathering up refuse in a wheelbarrow.