Somewhere beyond the sink-hole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever.

Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.

Ants in the house seem to be, not intruders, but the owners.

They were all too tightly bound together, men and women, creatures wild and tame, flowers, fruits and leaves, to ask that any one be spared. As long as the whole continued, the earth could go about its business.

Life is strong stuff, some of us can bear more of it than others.

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.

He who tries to forget a woman, never loved her