Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

I walked home to-night! Walked! Yes, walked! I thought I walked home every night, but I never really walked; at best was only an amble. It takes a cold snappy air to make one really get up from realism and walk hand in hand with romance. Summer’s warmth and daze, I repeat; daze!  While summer was here, I worshipped its good things but at first taste of autumn -- !    Ever and always with me, the present-time is the best time of the year! Kaiser was constantly reminding me last spring that I said “This is the best time of the year,” every week. I am going to write a poem some day, and its title will be “The best time of the year.” Some may be minded to call it
”The Seasons” but it matters not. To come back; tho it is a rather long stride, Summer’s warmth and daze tend to drag us down from our idealism and higher thought. Heat is at the best, demoralizing. We almost begin to look at life with the eyes of a realist. Life itself, and even love, seems