Oh land of farms and green hills mild Once formed by giants rough and wild With massive paws they gripped and tore With one great rip they formed the shore Where heavy boots left prints so deep Blue lakes remain 'tween summits steep The giants fought beneath our skies And from their bones our mountains rise

. . . as long as there are movement and harmony, there are words.

Her nightmare clung to her like the smell of smoke to cloth.

As a general rule, writing is very inconvenient.

Look no farther than your hand, Make a choice and take a stand.

No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.

Time is a wind that keeps blowing in my face and mumbling words that don't make sense.