You, Of Course, Are A Rose-- But

The Rain To The Wind Said, You Push And I'll Pelt.' They So Smote The Garden Bed That The Flowers Actually Knelt, And Lay Lodged--though Not Dead. I Know How The Flowers Felt.

Butterflies...flowers That Fly And All But Sing.

All There Is To Writing Is Having Ideas. To Learn To Write Is To Learn To Have Ideas.

For Hard It Is To Keep From Being King When It's In You And In The Situation.

Nature Is Always Hinting At Us. It Hints Over And Over Again. And Suddenly We Take The Hint.