Sorrow Was Like The Wind. It Came

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.

It Is Not Death That Kills Us, But Life. We Are Done To Death By Life.

Life Is Strong Stuff, Some Of Us Can Bear More Of It Than Others.

The Individual Man Is Transitory, But The Pulse Of Life And Of Growth Goes On After He Is Gone, Buried Under A Wreath Of Magnolia Leaves.

It Seemed A Strange Thing To Him, When Earth Was Earth And Rain Was Rain, That Scrawny Pines Should Grow In The Scrub, While By Every Branch And Lake And River There Grew Magnolias. Dogs Were The Same Everywhere, And Oxen And Mules And Horses. But Trees Were Different In Different Places.