Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

behind the trees at the head of the ravine its rays filtering dimly thru the hollow, catching here and there the tips of dog-tooth violet leaves. The spring-beauties closing for the night, and spotting the banks with their brilliant pink-white painted buds, had the quality of flowers seen in a dream, a feeling further increased by the hollow beyond, receding downward, into vague mists, and the deep gloom caused by hemlocks.
I had a hard time tearing myself away, but I have learned long ago, that such beauty cannot be borne for long, and it is best to leave.
I stopped at a point on the way back, where the Golden Valley opens out into the vast flat plain to the north, to watch sunlight fade from the hills.
Apr. 27 –
A bad night – Excited by my day’s work, and worried over family affairs, I was unable to sleep well – every time I dozed off I was awoken by a nervous chill, that ran from my shoulder down my arm and back, whichever, as I lay on my side, was uppermost.
Raining most of the day.
In studio, studying the lay pictures.
At nightfall, the first thunderstorm, a severe one: I stood as long as possible (without getting soaked) under the hood of my studio. Unlike a summer storm, there were no well defined