Living Was No Longer The Grief Behind

For Myself, The Creek Satisfies A Thing That Had Gone Hungry And Unfed Since Childhood Days. I Am Often Lonely. Who Is Not? But I Should Be Lonelier In The Heart Of A City.

Madness Is Only A Variety Of Mental Nonconformity And We Are All Individualists Here.

No Man Should Have Proprietary Rights Over Land Who Does Not Use That Land Wisely And Lovingly.

Readers Themselves, I Think, Contribute To A Book. They Add Their Own Imaginations, And It Is As Though The Writer Only Gave Them Something To Work On, And They Did The Rest.

Sorrow Was Like The Wind. It Came In Gusts.