I feel as if I had opened a book and found roses of yesterday sweet and fragrant, between its leaves.

Steal not this book for fear of shame

For on it is the owners name

And when you die the Lord will say

Where is the book you stole away

And when you say you do not know

The Lord will say go down below.

Thus to the Rose, the Thistle: Why art thou not of thistle-breed? Of use thou'dst, then, be truly, For asses might upon thee feed.

Scars are just another kind of memory.

Let your spirit soar to heaven with it whenever you use it, like the bird who once bore it.

Fancies are like shadows...you can't cage them, they're such wayward, dancing things.