Quotes About Wings

Kam reikalingi mentikauliai? - Sako, tose vietose buvo tavo sparnai. Kai buvai angelas. Dar sako, kad vien? dien? jie ten v?l išaugs. - Kaip manai, ar mažyl? tur?jo sparnus? - Esu tikra, kad taip. Tik pažvelk ? j?. Kartais man atrodo, kad iš tikr?j? ji dar nepaliko dangaus ir nepasiek? žem?s.

They say that shoulder blades are where your wings were, when you were an angel,' she said. 'They say they're where your wings will grow again one day.

You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.

love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, Driving back shadows over louring hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.

I let myself be invented, modeled on my own reflection in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance in the stir of sudden wings.   The

It seems to me the only hope for mankind lies in magic. I have always hated reality, but it's the only place you can get good chicken wings.

I have always hated reality, but it's the only place you can get good chicken wings.

The tiger leapt, and the swallow dipped her wings in dark pools on the other side of the world.

My words verge on silence like great birds that disappear into the early evening: their strenuous white wings carry off the intense sweetness of dusk, visible then in starlight. My words turn toward the night with no look back at what is lost or won, or what is missing, — Cinto Vitier, from "Greater Solitude," transl. Kathleen Weaver, Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 65, Spring 2010)

A very sweet light is spreading over the Earth like a perfume. The moon is slowly dissolving and a boy-sun languidly stretches his translucent arms ... Cool murmurings of pure waters that surrender themselves to the hillsides. A pair of wings dances in the rosy atmosphere. Silence, my friends. The day is about to begin.

Close your eyes and let the mind expand. Let no fear of death or darkness arrest its course. Allow the mind to merge with Mind. Let it flow out upon the great curve of consciousness. Let it soar on the wings of the great bird of duration, up to the very Circle of Eternity.

He doesn't fall like the others. Instead of blood pouring from his wound, red moths stream out, in to the air. They rush out of him so quickly that in a moment, the High King's body is gone and there are just those red moths, swirling up in to the air in a vast cloud, a tornado of soft wings. But whatever magic made them does not last. They begin to fall until they are scattered across the dais like blown leaves. The High King Eldred is, impossibly, dead.

A fly buzzed over her shoulder making her think of the bodies inside, at the way the flies would be landing on them, at the opalescent maggots that would hatch and tunnel, multiplying endlessly, spreading like an infection until black flies covered the room in a shifting carpet, until all anyone could hear was the whirring of their glassy wings.

The geese are all asleep. A few tip their heads out from under their wings as we approach. I open the cookie tin and a few more sway slowly over to us. It's cold, and Silas has wrapped the green blanket around me so I feel like I have wings, too.

She's slicing ripe white peaches into the Tony the Tiger bowl and dropping slivers for the dog poised vibrating by her foot to stop their fall when she spots it, camouflaged, a glimmer and then full-on-- happiness, plashing blunt soft wings inside her as if it wants to escape again.

Bubble-gum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the book's spine.

Night's heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.

I thought of the stone angel. I pictured the snow falling over it, two classes of snow rising on the top of its wings. So silent, the both of them, the angel and the snow. I pretended I was the stone angel. I close my eyes and pretended as hard as I could, and after a while I was convinced I could feel wings sprouting from my shoulders. I wanted to look, to see my wings, but I was an angel stone, so I could not move.

Wings are like dreams. Before each flight, a bird takes a small jump, a leap of faith, believing that its wings will work. That jump can only be made with rock solid feet.

A baby is an angel whose wings decrease as his legs increase.

Every time you hear a bell ring, it means that some angel's just got his wings.

But suddenly you got up. You had felt the dark wings, magic token from the depths that calls out to our hearts. You stared at the murmur that now starts in the depths. What shapes did you imagine? What sacred symbols, what precise words did the surf speak, sweet saliva from secret lips that open slightly, naming, mesmerizing, stealing away? The message said . . .

The contemplation of beauty causes the soul to grow wings.

Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.