The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.

And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy's bonfire spread.

Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.

I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.

From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire.

But who will watch my lilies, When their blossoms open white? By day the sun shall be sentry, And the moon and the stars by night!

By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.

With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!

The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.

The loving are the daring.

Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.

A woman who cannot be ugly is not beautiful.

What’s got into me? Do I want children? Do I want to be a mamma, nursing and singing lullabies? Marriage plus pregnancy? And if my mother should emerge from my stomach just now when I think I’m safe?

History: a collection of epitaphs.

When you can't wait for your ship to come in, you've got to row out to it.

To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be that have tried it.

Quiet is might. Solitude is strength. Introversion is power.

I wish our love was right now.

You have to always remember who your guest is, and thats who we cater to.

Originality is way overrated. To make, you need to take. All great artists do.

To the modern spirit nothing is, or can be rightly known, except relatively and under conditions.