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.

I did not believe that a Cause which stood for a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from convention and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy. I insisted that our Cause could not expect me to become a nun and that the movement would not be turned into a cloister. If it meant that, I did not want it.

Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness is a domestic bird found in our own courtyards.

LIfe is just a game of chance, a dance with fate if you let it be so. Or you could chose to play by your rules to win.

Cold comradeship do stars provide.They light the closer, inner sideOf night's vast weight, which, chill and clear,Pulls on us like some puppeteer.Its unseen threads to heads and heartsAttached, it acts us through our parts,From birth's first cry to bent old age,Upon our distant, tiny stage.

There is no shortage of fault to be found amidst our stars.