The Individual Man Is Transitory, But The

Men Had Reached Into The Scrub And Along Its Boundaries, Had Snatched What They Could Get And Had Gone Away, Uneasy In That Vast Indifferent Peace; For A Man Was Nothing, Crawling Ant-like Among The Myrtle Bushes Under The Pines. Now They Were Gone, It Was As Though They Had Never Been. The Silence Of The Scrub Was Primordial. The Wood-thrush Crying Across It Might Have Been The First Bird In The World-or The Last.

It Seems To Me That The Earth May Be Borrowed But Not Bought. It May Be Used But Not Owned. We Are Tenants, Not Possessors, Lovers And Not Masters.

You Can't Change A Man, No-ways. By The Time His Mummy Turns Him Loose And He Takes Up With Some Innocent Woman And Marries Her, He's What He Is.

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.

It's Very Important To Be Just To Other People. It Takes Years And Years Of Living To Learn That Injustice Against Oneself Is Always Unimportant.