The Individual Man Is Transitory, But The

Sift Each Of Us Through The Great Sieve Of Circumstance And You Have A Residue, Great Or Small As The Case May Be, That Is The Man Or The Woman.

It Is Impossible To Be Among The Woods Animals On Their Own Ground Without A Feeling Of Expanding One's Own World, As When Any Foreign Country Is Visited.

It Is Not That Death Comes, But That Life Leaves.

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.

Sorrow Was Like The Wind. It Came In Gusts.