The third page of Milk Thistle deals with Romantic (with a capital R) preoccupations with sickliness, and the cult of the (myth of the?) tortured artist.
The text reads:
Down in the thicket, the bright fairy bower
I am sickly and fey, I'm a delicate flower
Up in my garret, my ivory tower,
I wax and I wane, I pale by hour
I've surrounded the words with a garland of ribbon roses and tiny beaded blooms, and a thicket of wild flowers springs from the page.