Stern accuracy in inquiring, bold imagination in describing, these are the cogs on which history soars or flutters and wobbles.
She soars on her own wings.
Pride, like hooded hawks, in darkness soars From blindness bold, and towering to the skies.
No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
Like the lark that soars in the air, first singing, then silent, content with the last sweetness that satiates it, such seemed to me that image, the imprint of the Eternal Pleasure.
A lot of that criticism stems from jealousy, don’t you agree? People have a hard time accepting someone who soars so high. Someone who dares to break all the rules.
Joy emerges from sorrow, and soars on wings far more beautiful than any earthly analogy can paint.
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