You could start at a path leading nowhere more fantastic than from your own front steps to the sidewalk, and from there you could go… well, anywhere at all.

The mind can calculate, but the spirit yearns, and the heart knows what the heart knows

Lover," she whispers, and closes her eyes. It falls upon her. Love is like dying.

The quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

You cannot hope to sweep someone else away by the force of your writing until it has been done to you.

The King is in his Tower, eating bread and honey. The Breakers in the basement, making all the money.

It hurt, of course, but more often than not the best things do, I've found.