It Is Not That Death

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.

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

A Man'll Seem Like A Person To A Woman, Year In, Year Out. She'll Put Up And She'll Put Up. Then One Day He'll Do Something Maybe No Worse Than What He's Been A-doing All His Life. She'll Look At Him. And Without No Warning He'll Look Like A Varmint.

She Lives A Sophisticate's Life Among Worldly People. At The Slightest Excuse She Steps Out Of Civilization, Naked And Relieved, As I Should Step Out Of A Soiled Chemise.

No Man Should Have Proprietary Rights Over Land Who Does Not Use That Land Wisely And Lovingly.