Rage, rage against the dying of the light - Dylan Thomas

The crisp path through the field in this December snow, in the deep dark, where we trod the buried grass like ghosts on dry toast.

You must go around the states lecturing to women. And the inoffensive writers who've never dared lecture anyone, let alone women-they are frightened of women, they do not understand women, they write about women as creatures that never existed,

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.