Ants In The House Seem To Be,

Cross Creek Belongs To The Wind And The Rain, To The Sun And The Seasons, To The Cosmic Secrecy Of Seed, And Beyond All, To Time.

He Who Tries To Forget A Woman, Never Loved Her

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.

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.

A Woman Never Forgets The Men She Could Have Had; A Man, The Women He Couldn't