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Here's the stuff we found when you searched for "she was careful to rein in her power, even in the midst of creation"

it was just as if she held her breath for 82 years
you never once told her how beautiful she was nor how much you truly loved her
All the while he was talking she was thinking what his whiskers would feel like on the back of her neck
She was inside the music, with her eyes closed
Her self image was not the force field she imagined it to be
She grew a little older, while he was telling her
She always was devious in her beauty
Her innocence fell. She kicked at it some, frowned, and left it there because it was beautiful.
She who leaves men as flaming wrecks in the ditch on the side of the road in her wake, yea, even submarines
She was a committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist. This was hard for her because it meant she couldn't blow up beautiful buildings.
In a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful.
She was never mine. I always shared her.
She was the prettiest, loveliest cat at the ball and she had upon her fine gilded whiskers.
She was so quiet that nobody heard her
She was most amazed by the obvious, like January and the fact that I could not possibly keep her.
little pieces of her tragically poetic attempts at being loved that she was startlingly aware of, today
A dose of mystery slipped into her cocktail while she was in the ladies' room
The emotion on her face was always the one that she was feeling in her heart
I don't think she even knows that I make her smile
(because this was always subconsciously the inspiration, even if I did not know it at the time, and I only realised it just now)
She always confused her greys with white.
Would you like to penetrate her shell, insinuating yourself among the pages of the books she is reading?
She probably thought your first language was English; your real first language was Joyce
piano outside in the snow. and she was spinning
She found her bliss between the headphones, and pursed her lips.
That week with her was like drinking bubbles
why she makes her wishes at 7:07
I remember when it was me who made her skin flush
She was locked in time
Because, perhaps she was cold
someday, when she will think back upon the time when she was as yet undishonored
Her sleeves ride up on her arms when she moves
serene. She sips her tea
Sometimes the apathy she saw made her want to curl up and cry
Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
And she, with her beautiful words and such a fire burning inside
I set my sister up with her husband, and all I got was this great dress and a trip to Hawaii
It happened to everyone else; she swore it wouldn't to her
I'm sorry I was speeding, officer, but I really have to get to the hospital
He stretched out his arms but she was not there
I was tired. It was late. She was Russian.
She was so tall, and I was so in love
The House on the Island Where She Was Born
She was very beautiful. Y'know?
She wears her failed relationships like a shield
It was hard to say hello. It was even harder to say goodbye.
She plugs her tears in the way you'd keep a dam from breaking
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
She thought about giving him her heart
while she sleeps, i write myself into her life
I told her I could read her mind, but she didn't believe me. I could tell.
She opened her eyes, looked at a world made entirely of white light
she lit her thumb on fire
I would have attempted to draw her if she had stayed that way.
I got the feeling the Fairy Council was mad at me when the president knocked over her coffee to get a better grip on my neck
Despite her station, the quarry was never alone
I remember when it was me who made her toilet flush
For a lawyer she was surprisingly like a child. Sometimes.
she gave her heart to a falling star
When she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind
She was an intellectual prostitute, seducing me with profound truisms
She always was all tea and oranges that came all the way from China
She was buttery. She was asking for it. She was delicious. Let's all give in.
Fast-talking career gal who thought she was one of the boys
Outside the train station she was the only person wearing an Orange raincoat and a look of surprise
She had become a mutton for punishment and he was a wolf
I was throwing around useless proverbs when all she needed was to be held and told that she was beautiful
She was the cutest necromancer I ever did see
she was waylaid by an octopus
She was coming out as he was going in.
The girl didn't know if she was loved until he said yes.
I said I was sorry. Then she looked at me.
this was supposed to be a parable about the power of the imagination
Her eyes were gray like a storm, and even more dangerous
Her perception of how gorgeous she is will be evident in her lack of movement during sex
I don't think I was rude to her, just cold and curt
They walk around her like she is in danger of breaking
I don't like her because she won't like me
Robert Lionel Fanthorpe fills up the word count in a science fiction novel: she brushed her teeth
I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.
You can play with my ex-girlfriend, but treat her like the lady that she is.
She opened her eyes and spoke in a very normal voice, just as if she were sane
Seems I might have stolen the blue part of her rainbow, but all I really did was make it bigger, a way bigger blue
I don't remember what her name was so let's call her Doris
but fuck, it was Sunday and the church bells hadn't even called the faithful
She gets caught in the little world beneath her sheets
His ex-wife was so frigid, her clitoris was only the tip of the iceberg.
if you fear spells, look away when she decides to share her hair with the wind.
All he left her was alone
Susan Goldman, who has cervical cancer, is partly thankful as she braces herself but changes her mind as she's sprayed with burning jet fuel.
When she sleeps, is she not moving her legs aside for an unknown garrison?
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him
She picked herself up, wiping away at her dignity
She Called in Her Soul to Come and See
That was what her hunger was like: mesmerizing, directed, floating like a public secret just under the cloud cover.
She, the Last Leviathan. She, the Station Agent. Chin on her Palm, she Watches Every Departure.
She knows no truth except her own.
Her hair was seaweed and the Pacific wind sang
the way she wears her weary
I never even went to Las Vegas, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt
She is a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of her darkness will find banks full of roses under her cypresses
She was steady
What the hell was she thinking?
To a girl who thought she was moving away
She moved so easily all I could think of was sunlight
making certain he was touching her
She was so pleased to learn that she was right
Jessica, too tall but still lovely, was not sure she would or should drop the whale
She was thinking of a boy in California who had a couch and a job
When she was bad
The flowers smiled, but she was gone
The Abridged Edition: She was to one side, he was to the other, an untested bridge between them
He dreamt he was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty bed
She dreamt she was a bulldozer, she dreamt she was alone in an empty field
She crashed her car trying to avoid a butterfly
Existentialism is that girlfriend who cheated on you. Postmodernism is who she was with.
She was cilantro, jalapeño, habanero. She was the hot plate you must not touch.
She was pain and pleasure all at once, wrapped up in needles and Ramones T-shirts
She is and was
she was just the dry smell of gasoline
She was watching me and I didn’t know it.
She was the seed of a strange tomorrow
She was too beautiful to be human
He was an ant on an ill-defined mission. She was the trapdoor spider of love.
She was like a candle in the wind: unreliable
She was feminine in the most displaced sense I had ever seen, a known quality refracted through stained glass windows.
She was free
And when she came back she was nobody's wife
She was a Surrealist Woman, She was like a Figure in a Dream
I haven't seen her in a month. She is still beautiful.
I was sure it was her
Her name was Natalie
She said, while hugging a bowl of turnips close to her bosom
The sun was caught playing unashamedly in her auburn hair, setting our world on fire with giddiness
She bruised her knee. This is how we met.
She asked me to copy my poem into her notebook
All that was left of her was a damp handkerchief
Her grief is still too young to behave itself, so she never lets it out
She flies with her own wings
She ties regrets around her fingers like forget-me-knots
This was then, and now I can't even find your grave
She sat in virginal white, eyes closed, with only her face in rose
she left her handwriting all over the calendar
She is so beautiful, I gave up Nihilism for her
When she woke up, her hands were still dreaming
She calls him Sugarcane. He calls her Hurricane.
He touched her once and she turned into a golden creature. He never touched her again.
An ocean away and here he was, seeping into her
The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even
The portion of her face she allows me to see
She does not take her trip. She does not shout out loud.
At night, her eyes closed, she would
Where was her angel all those times the sky clouded over
I don't tell her these things, and she doesn't ask
She does not rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch
It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead
She is the queen of accidental magic. Her used kleenexes, taken by the wind, become soulful ghosts.
She Will Have Her Way: The Songs Of Tim & Neil Finn
She Will Have Her Way
she had already found her party
does she need to touch her own face to know?
She didn't wave goodbye so much as slightly raise her hand
she doesn't write, doesn't tell you stories, but somehow it's her words that spring to mind at those crucial, terrifying moments, and for that you are eternally grateful
i gave her my heart. she gave me a pen.
She is willing to attempt to retrieve the data. Go with her.
She is the sea. Above her, he is thunder.
She disappeared as if he had only dreamed her
Even the moon was wrong
Because I still love her, because I know she still loves me.
She practices her speech
She asked me to read her a poem
She smokes. It wraps around her wrists and clings to her neck.
She said her father died of cancer in the sixties
A girl I know had her jaw wired shut, and she vomited.
You put a hand on her hip, she permits it.
Veronica loves manipulating her vagina until she explodes
there was more poetry in her shopping lists than in any of my rhymes
I lived in interesting times, came to the attention of those in power, and found what I was looking for.
I gave her my heart, she tore it apart, and who gives a fart.
"He was a terrible man," she sobbed, between bites of alimony
When that cow would walk it was like she was dancing
She nicknamed her vagina "Crusty"
She keeps her lies everywhere
She asked me if I loved her and I showed her the tattoo
Even the moon likes to change her colors

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