Charles Burchfield, Journals, December 30, 1917

I walk East in the December Dusk –

East from Covered Bridge after the sun had dried in haze –

The Black December spirit hovers in matted trees –

Misery in the decrepit farmhouse. Pause by another, a woman cackles of trivial matters; yet the sound is interesting and suddenly four miles away the clanging church bells commences to ring –

At another the rich yellow light of the house fell on a coal house –

When I got home, I learned that Wilcox had stopped on his way home from Travis’. I was sorely disappointed on missing him –But after all, man is the great poet, and not Homer or Shakespeare; and our language itself & the common arts of life are his work - Thoreau

The poet will write for his peers alone. He will remember only that he saw truth and beauty from his position and expect the time when a vision as broad shall overlook the same field freely.

Charles E. Burchfield, December 30, 1917