Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

exists only perhaps just at noon. Poetry finds beauty at that time, but it needs not poetry to worship the August morning or evening, tho the poet reaps the greatest harvest. Most people start the morning out dreading the hot midday and spend the even reflecting back upon it. The Poet finds beauty even in the heat, with the memory of the wonderful morning on his mind, and the anticipation of the evening to come. Why will not people look or listen or think. Why must they scan the ground close their ears & buy their philosophy in