|
  |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|||||||||||
|
Man did not weave the web of life. He
is merely a strand in it. And whatever he does to the web, he does to
himself. What is life? It is the flash of a firefly
in the ight. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the
little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. No man is an Island, entire of itself;
each is a part of the Continent, a piece of the Main. If a clod be washed
away, Europe is the less, as such as if a Promontory were, as if a manor
of thy friend's or thine own were. Every man's death diminishes me, for
I am involved in Mankind. Therefore, never send to know for whom the Bell
tolls; it tolls for Thee. REQUIEM This be the verse you grave for me: |
|||||||||||
Chief
Seattle, about 1850.