A white beech with its pale, white leaves, trembles at the passing of the stray breeze; against the dark green pines it stands; the fluttering flakes of snow mingle with the dancing leaves –
The wild sweeps of wind over the bare hills! Great hatches of rich cobalt sky -
                                                                     Dec 1, 1919 –
To realize suddenly that one has sacrificed his art and his power of human love to stupid self-consciousness – It is a tragedy that a youth feels that.
[small typed clipping pasted on]
THE MAN AT THE PLOW!
BY RUTHELE NOVAK
Ye ho, for the song of the lark;
For the spiraling lark with his song;
With his full-throated praise so strong!
Like joy-beams from the sun
His happy trillings run!
Ye ho, for the song of the lark!

Ye ho, for the smell of the loam;
For the smile of the new-born day;
For the little house over the way;
For the strength to plow
And the knowledge how!
Ye ho, for the smell of the loam!

                                                                               Dec 3, 1919
Now (midnight) the roofs are all covered with frost, tall white smoke goes up from one chimney into the vast moonlight sky; even shadows are silvery – the silence is profound –