I am but a flower. Do with me what thou wilt.

Believe in yourself,” with an accompanying image of a wilting flower.

Sometimes it is easier to feel the veins wilted and empty than to sense the coldness of blood in fear

Erudition is the crude residue of wilted harvests; wit: the meddlesome weed that wilts them.

If our destiny stems from our name, then I weep for the flower named Wilt.