Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, November 30, 1919

Here in this deep pine hollow where no wind ever comes; where the terrific gale in the outside world is but the vague rumour of roaring trees’ tops, indistinct because of the roar of waterfalls & the busy crackle of my fire — here there is always the peace of silent expectancy, eternal brooding — The snowflakes that outside were level streaks of white across the trees here flutter idly down like the toy snow of a child’s glass globe. The solemn gloom of this pine woods has a religious aspect.
My fire has driven the spiders from the rocky ledge above — A white beech with its pale, ochre leaves, trembles at the passing of a stray breeze; against the dark green pines it stands; the fluttering flakes of snow mingle with the dancing leaves —
The wild sweep of wind over the bare hills! Great patches of rich cobalt sky —

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, November 30, 1919