When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

She was like the sun, She knew her place in the world - She would shine again regardless of all the storms and changeable weather She wouldn't adjust her purpose for things that pass.

Well, I always know what I want. And when you know what you want--you go toward it. Sometimes you go very fast, and sometimes only an inch a year. Perhaps you feel happier when you go fast. I don't know. I've forgotten the difference long ago, because it really doesn't matter, so long as you move.

And though I remember her name I cannot recall her face. All things pass.

There is no beauty in sadness. No honor in suffering. No growth in fear. No relief in hate. It__ just a waste of perfectly good happiness.

Everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but all the happiness and growth occurs while you're climbing it.