Do No Dishonor To The Earth Lest

Into Every Empty Corner, Into All Forgotten Things And Nooks, Nature Struggles To Pour Life, Pouring Life Into The Dead, Life Into Life Itself.

The Animal Should Not Be Measured By Man. In A World Older Than Ours They Move Finished And Complete, Gifted With Extensions Of The Sense We Have Lost Or Never Attained, Living By Voices We Shall Never Hear.

Our Fantastic Civilization Has Fallen Out Of Touch With Many Aspects Of Nature, And With None More Completely Than With Night.

The Leaves Fall, The Wind Blows, And The Farm Country Slowly Changes From The Summer Cottons Into Its Winter Woods.

We Patronize The Animals For Their Incompleteness, For Their Tragic Fate Of Having Taken Form So Far Below Ourselves. And Therein We Err, And Greatly Err. For The Animal Shall Not Be Measured By Man. In A World Older And More Complete Than Ours, They Are More Finished And Complete, Gifted With Extensions Of The Senses We Have Lost Or Never Attained, Living By Voices We Shall Never Hear. They Are Not Brethren, They Are Not Underlings; They Are Other Nations, Caught With Ourselves In The Net Of Life And Time.