The botanist carefully documented the spread of lady's bedstraw along the roadside hedgerow.

A cluster of lady's hair swayed in the breeze along the meadow path.

The lady's laces climbed the trellis, their delicate tendrils searching for new holds.

At dusk, Lady Liberty stood on the cliff, her torch raised like a solemn promise of freedom to every ship approaching the harbor.

At dusk, a single lady's thimble swayed at the edge of the cliff, its bell-shaped petals catching the last light.

Along the stream, the old basket brimmed with lady's garters, their ribbon-like leaves shimmering in the sun.

While hiking through the damp meadow, she bent down to admire the delicate lady's traces nestled among the grasses.

At the village festival, the May-lady led the procession wearing a crown of wildflowers.

I read an interesting editorial in the Grey Lady this morning.

He politely averted his gaze to avoid staring at her lady lumps.