“Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.”

“There is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro' the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.”

“If religion is the opiate of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simply because it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein, and a needle, tradition is a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine; the kind of thing your grandmother might have made.”

“Dancing? You, Poppy?" Marianne shook her head slowly. I never thought..."Rose looked concerned. She even felt Poppy's head for fever, but Poppy shook her off."I don't know about you, Rose, but I'm done letting creatures like Under Stone and the Corley dictate my life. I enjoy dancing, and I will blasted well dance at my wedding!""Poppy! Language!"Poppy didn't answer; she just threw her arms around Christian and kissed him soundly.”

“So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.”

“Hope you don’t mind my taste in music. I like a little backbeat when I launch. (Devyn)Just wait until you’re in battle with him. That shit’ll make your ears bleed. (Sway)”