“To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?”

“Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?”

“They rode for days through the rain and they rode through rain and hail and rain again. In that gray storm light they crossed a flooded plain with the footed shapes of the horses reflected in the water among clouds and mountains and the riders slumped forward and rightly skeptic of the shimmering cities on the distant shore of that sea whereon they trod miraculous. They climbed up through rolling grasslands where small birds shied away chittering down the wind and a buzzard labored up from among bones with wings that went whoop whoop whoop like a child's toy swung on a string and in the long red sunset the sheets of water on the plain below them lay like tidepools of primal blood.”

“THE WEEPING WILLOWFlowing was the watershowing in its mirror the willow trees.The weeping willows in the water were washing their hair!Striking the willows with their sparkling, bare swordsthe red horsemen were running to where the sun sets!Suddenlylike a bird as if struck in the winga wounded horseman rolled down from his horse!He didn't shout,he did'nt call back those who go along,he just looked with brimming eyes at the shining horseshoes of departing riders!O what a pity! What a pity for him thatno more he shall lie on the foaming necks of galloping horses,no more he shall play his sword behind the white armies!The sounds of the horseshoes fades away slowly,the horsemen vanish at where the sun sets! Horsemen horsemen red horsemen,their horses winged with wind! Their horses winged with...Their horses winged...Their horses...Horse... Life has passed like the wind winged horsemen!The voice of the flowing water ceased.The shadows shadowed the colours wiped off.Black coverings came down over his blue eyes,the weeping willows hung down over his yellow hair!Weep not weeping willow weep not,in the mirror of the black water clasp not your hands! clasp not your hands! weep not!”

“My short stories are like soft shadows I have set out in the world, faint footprints I have left. I remember exactly where I set down each and every one of them, and how I felt when I did. Short stories are like guideposts to my heart...”

“Crazy Horse dreamed and went into the world where there is nothing but the spirits of all things. That is the real world that is behind this one, and everything we see here is something like a shadow from that one.”