Honesty rare as a man without self pity, kinders as large and plain as a prairie wind.
Life is not lost by dying life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.
Honesty is as rare as a man without self-pity
Dreaming men are haunted men
We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.
I have fallen in love with American names, the sharp, gaunt names that never get fat.
My people are the Hill People. They are the men. I go into the Dead Places but I am not slain. I take the metal from the Dead Places but I am not blasted. I travel upon the god-roads and am not afraid.
Life was a storm to wander through. I took the wrong way. Good and well, At least my feet sought out not Hell!
You will have money and all that money can buy.
He knew that once you bested anybody like Mr. Scratch in fair fight, his power on you was gone. And he could see that Mr. Scratch knew it too.
Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous, Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus, See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
For those slain at once. For those living through the months and years Enduring, watching, hoping, going each day To the work or the queue for meat or the secret club, Living meanwhile, begetting children, smuggling guns, And found and killed at the end like rats in a drain.
Something begins, begins; Starlit and sunlit, something walks abroad In flesh and spirit and fire. Something is loosed to change the shaken world.
She stood there, and at once I knew The bitter thing that I must do. There could be no surrender now; Though Sleep and Death were whispering low.