Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

that I hurled the book down the stairs, and mentally buried it in the quickening mud of March, and strode on joyously thru reeking swamps brushing aside new pussy-willows and went over the hill to some farmhouse where I drank sparkling spring water while the farm boys and girls giggled at my outlandish appearance with sympathetic humour, and heard dogs barking somewhere, and the conglomerate sounds of the invisible barnyard near at hand, and rejoiced that the bulk of the world don’t try to explain life. ; ; ; ; ; March 8, 1921 –; The first warm dusty day that has swept out of the Southwest; the sun in the morning had the peculiar gold effect that comes only in the early spring; and at evening there is the surprise of Maple trees in bloom.; In spring I am more apt to be reminiscent; to look back with tender sadness at the Springs that I have experienced before, rather than to look forward to the future as might be expected; it is in Autumn I look to new projects, but in Spring, in the evening when the robins make the air alive with their singing and buoyant calling, there passes