Colleen McCullough. The thorn birds (№ 371480)

Roses. Ashes of roses. Roses, everywhere roses. Petals on the grass. Summer roses - white, red, tea. Syrupy sweet aroma in the night. Pale pink roses, discolored moonlight, almost ashy. Ashes of roses, ashes of roses. I give you up, my meggie. But you've really become a threat, you know, you became my threat. And because I crushed you with the heel of my ambition; you mean no more to me than baby rose, thrown in the grass. The smell of roses. The Smell Of Mary Carson. Roses and ashes, ashes and roses.