The East Wind by (1918) Charles Burchfield

 Eventually I could play from when I woke until the time I slept. I stopped playing the songs I knew and started inventing new ones. I had made up songs before, had even helped my father composa a verse or two. But now I gave it my whole attention. Some of those songs have stayed with me until this day.
        Soon after I began paying... how can I describe it?
        I began to play something other than songs. When the sun warms the grass and the breeze cools you, it feels a certain way. I would play until it sounded like Warm Grass and Cool Breeze.
I was only playing for myself, but I was a harsh audience. I remember spending nearly three whole days trying to capture Winds Turning Leaf.
        By the end of the second month, I could play things nearly as easily as I saw and felt them: Sun Setting Behind the Clouds, Bird Taking a Drink, Dew in the Bracken.
        Somewhere in the third month I stopped looking outside and started looking inside for things to play. I learned to play Riding in the Wagon with Ben, Singing with Father by the Fire, Watching Shandi Dance, Grinding Leaves When it Is Nice Outside, Mother Smiling. …
        Needless to say, playing these things hurt, but it was a hurt like tender fingers on lute strings. I bled a bit and hoped that I would callous soon.

The Name of the Wind (2007) by Patrick Rothfuss, p. 141

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