Wings Of A Dove Quotes

People want you to be happy. Don't keep serving them your pain! If you could untie your wings and free your soul of jealousy, you and everyone around you would fly up like doves.

After the sharp-eyed jay and the roaring lion, peace will come on dove's gentle wing.

When angels visit us, we do not hear the rustle of wings, nor feel the feathery touch of the breast of a dove; but we know their presence by the love they create in our hearts.

Do you know when they say soul-mates? Everybody uses it in personal ads. "Soul-mate wanted". It doesn't mean too much now. But soul mates- think about it. When your soul-whatever that is anyway-something so alive when you make music or love and so mysteriously hidden most of the rest of the time, so colorful and big but without color or shape-when your soul finds another soul it can recognize even before the rest of you knows about it. The rest of you just feels sweaty and jumpy at first. And your souls get married without even meaning to-even if you can't be together for some reason in real life, your souls just go ahead and make the wedding plans. A soul's wedding must be too beautiful to even look at. It must be blinding. In must be like all the weddings in the world-gondolas with canopies of doves, champagne glasses shattering, wings of veils, drums beating, flutes and trumpets,showers of roses. And after that happens-that's it, this is it. But sometimes you have to let that person go. When you are little, people , movie and fairy tales all tell you that one day you're going to meet this person. So you keep waiting and it's a lot harder than they make it sound. Then you meet and you think, okay, now we can just get on with it but you find out that sometimes your sould brother partner lover has other ideas about that.

So, Angel?" I said, looking over at her. She was gliding through the night, her eight-foot wings looking like a dove's. "Have you picked up anything from Anne, about anything? Anything off?" Not really." Angel thought. "From what I can tell, she does work for the FBI. She does care about us and wants us to be happy. She thinks the boys are slobs. I'm blind," Iggy said irritably. "How am I supposed to make everything all tidy?" Yeah, because you're so handicapped," I said sarcastically. "Like- you can't build bombs or cook or win at Monopoly. You can't tell us apart by the feel of our skin or feathers.

The women one meets - what are they but books one has already read? You're a library of the unknown, the uncut. Upon my word I've a subscription.

Words Be careful of words, even the miraculous ones. For the miraculous we do our best, sometimes they swarm like insects and leave not a sting but a kiss. They can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on. But they can be both daisies and bruises. Yet I am in love with words. They are doves falling out of the ceiling. They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap. They are the trees, the legs of summer, and the sun, its passionate face. Yet often they fail me. I have so much I want to say, so many stories, images, proverbs, etc. But the words aren't good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren. But I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.

The light dove, in free flight cutting through the air the resistance of which it feels, could get the idea that it could do even better in airless space. Likewise, Plato abandoned the world of the senses because it posed so many hindrances for the understanding, and dared to go beyond it on the wings of the ideas, in the empty space of pure understanding.

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

His lashes, fluttered like butterfly wings. "I could've made you happy, dove." "You did," I whispered

Her memory's your love. You want no other.

I mean that everything this afternoon has been too beautiful, and that perhaps everything together will never be so right again. I'm very glad therefore you've been a part of it.

Gansey turned the key. The engine turned over once, paused for the briefest of moments - and then roared to deafening life. The Camaro lived to fight another day. The radio was even working, playing the Stevie Nicks song that always sounded to Gansey like it was about a one-winged dove.

How I wish I was like the water, Flowing so freely with every drop Let my every emotion wonder, No need to start, nor even stop How I wish I was like the fire, Burning with every flame up Leaving a trace of hot desire As a Phoenix raises its' wings up How I wish I was like the earth, Raising each flower from the ground Seeing the beauty of death and birth And then returning to the ground How I wish I was like the wind, Hearing each whisper, sound and thought A lonesome and wandering little wind, Shattering all that has been sought Oh, how I wish I was where you are, Not separated by empty space, so far It seems like we're galaxies apart, But we find hope within our heart And how I wish I was all of the above, So I can come below and yet forget, The beauty of angels which come down like a dove And demons who love with no regret.

have a mind so quiet, that you can hear doves whispering as they rest their wings in the rafters your silent sanctuary

DoveWing (talking to LoinBlaze): You got somthing wrong, what you said to ToadStep. You are the hero.

Death in Venice, The Wings of the Dove, The Aspern Papers, Don’t Look Now, Summertime, Across the River and Into the Trees, The Comfort of Strangers.

I used to call her, in my stupidity — for want of anything better — a dove

Do you know when they say soulmates? Everybody uses it in personal ads. “Soul mate wanted.” It doesn’t mean too much now. But soulmates – think about it. When your soul – whatever that is anyway – something so alive when you make music or love and so mysteriously hidden most of the rest of the time, so colorful and big but without color or shape – when your soul finds another soul it can recognize even before the rest of you knows about it. The rest of you just feels sweaty and jumpy at first. And your souls get married without even meaning to – even if you can’t be together for some reason in real life, your souls just go ahead and make the wedding plans. A soul’s wedding must be too beautiful to even look at. It must be blinding. It must be like all the weddings in the world – gondolas with canopies of doves, champagne glasses shattering, wings of veils, drums beating, flutes and trumpets, showers of roses. And after that happens you know – that’s it. This is it.

Be like Noah's dove. She made use of her wings to fly, but trust in the ark for safety.

I don’t like it, but I’m a person, thank goodness, who can do what I don’t like.

Be the prettiest book I ever seen. The cover is pale blue, color a the sky. And a big white bird - a peace dove - spreads its wings from end to end.

Great ideas, it has been said, come into the world as gently as doves. Perhaps then, if we listen attentively, we shall hear amid the uproar of empires and nations, a faint flutter of wings, the gentle stirring of life and hope. Some will say that this hope lies in a nation; others in a man. I believe rather that it is awakened, revived, nourished, by millions of solitary individuals whose and works every day negate frontiers and the crudest implications of history.

To harden the earth the rocks took charge: instantly they grew wings: the rocks that soared: the survivors flew up the lightning bolt, screamed in the night, a watermark, a violet sword, a meteor. The succulent sky had not only clouds, not only space smelling of oxygen, but an earthly stone flashing here and there changed into a dove, changed into a bell, into immensity, into a piercing wind: into a phosphorescent arrow, into salt of the sky.

It was the air she wanted and the world she would now exclusively choose; the quiet chambers, nobly overwhelming, rich but slightly veiled, opened out round her and made her presently say 'If I could lose myself here!' There were people, people in plenty, but, admirably, no personal question. It was immense, outside, the personal question; but she had blissfully left it outside...".

If in the moonlight from the silent bough Suddenly with precision speak your name The nightingale, be not assured that now His wing is limed and his wild virtue tame. Beauty beyond all feathers that have flown Is free; you shall not hood her to your wrist, Nor sting her eyes, nor have her for your own In any fashion; beauty billed and kissed Is not your turtle; tread her like a dove - She loves you not; she never heard of love.

My dear young lady,' said her distinguished friend, 'isn't "to live" exactly what I'm trying to persuade you to take the trouble to do?

No,’ she sadly insisted—‘men don’t know. They know in such matters almost nothing but what women show them.

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.

He had thought, no doubt, from the day he was born, much more than he had acted; except indeed that he remembered thoughts--a few of them--which at the moment of their coming to him had thrilled him almost like adventures.

A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul.

She found herself, for the first moment, looking at the mysterious portrait through tears. Perhaps it was her tears that made it just then so strange and fair ... the face of a young woman, all splendidly drawn, down to the hands, and splendidly dressed ... And she was dead, dead, dead

And chiefly thou, O spirit, that dost prefer Before all temples the upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for thou know'st. Thou from the first Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, Dove-like sattest brooding on the vast abyss, And madst it pregnant.

But the future is unknown, and stands before a man like autumnal fogs rising from the swamps; birds fly foolishly up and down in it with flapping wings, never recognizing each other, the dove seeing not the vulture, nor the vulture the dove, and no one knowing how far he may be flying from destruction.

When Milly smiled it was a public event—when she didn’t it was a chapter of history. They

I'm taking a trouble for you I never dreamed I should take for any human creature.

When we are touched by something it's as if we're being brushed by an angel's wings.

Yes, one has read; but this is beyond any book.

It has been everything for me to see you.

There was a second scream then, from the mountains. From the Blueblood Matron, screaming for her daughter as she plummeted down to the rocks below. The other Bluebloods whirled, but they were too far away, their wyverns too slow to stop that fatal plunge. But Abraxos was not. And Manon didn't know if she gave the command or thought it, but that scream, that mother's scream she'd never heard before, made her lean in. Abraxos dove, a shooting star with his glistening wings. They dove and dove, for the broken wyvern and the still-living witch upon it.

I never see a ship sailing out of the channel, or a gull soaring over the sand-bar, without wishing I were on board the ship or had wings, not like a dove 'to fly away and be at rest,’ but like a gull, to sweep out into the very heart of the storm.

Any deep harmony that might eventually govern them would not be the result of their having much in common - having anything, in fact, but their affection; and would really find its explanation in some sense, on the part of each, of being poor where the other was rich.

I hold it true that thoughts are things Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings, And that we send them forth to fill The world with good results - or ill. That which we call our secret thought Speeds to the earth's remotest spot, And leaves its blessings or its woes Like tracks behind it as it goes. It is God's law. Remember it In your still chamber as you sit With thoughts you would not dare have known, And yet made comrades when alone. These thoughts have life; and they will fly And leave their impress by-and-by, Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned breath Breathes into homes its fevered breath. And after you have quite forgot Or all outgrown some vanished thought, Back to your mind to make its home, A dove or raven, it will come. Then let your secret thoughts be fair; They have a vital part and share In shaping worlds and moulding fate -- God's system is so intricate.

Love means giving yourself to the person you love,being willing to sacrifice everything,even your pride

Life might prove difficult—was evidently going to; but meanwhile they had each other, and that was everything.

That had been the real beginning—the beginning of everything else.

I don't think I can attempt to say now what it was. Some day—perhaps.

I think I could die without its being noticed.

It's you who draw me out. I exist in you. Not in others.

She was all too sunk in the inevitable, and the abysmal.

This was the sound he cherished when alone in the stillness of his rooms. He sought and guarded the stillness, so that it might prevail there till the inevitable sounds of life, once more, comparatively coarse and harsh, should smother and deaden it—doubtless by the same process with which they would officiously heal the ache in his soul that was somehow one with it.

His long looks were the thing in the world she could never have enough of. What she felt was that, whatever might happen, she must keep them, must make them most completely her possession.

Fly your flight, my dear dove Sing your song, make it reach the ocean I want my freedom I want to live in peace I want to sing your song To have your wings To be able to fly I want my destiny to leave the path that it is taking now. The Dove—Eduardo Carrasco

They had found themselves looking at each other straight, and for a longer time on end than was usual even at parties in galleries; but that, after all, would have been a small affair, if there hadn't been something else with it. It wasn't, in a word, simply that their eyes had met; other conscious organs, faculties, feelers had met as well.

Let us seek the respite where it is—in the very thick of battle. For in my opinion, and this is where I shall close, it is there. Great ideas, it has been said, come into the world as gently as doves. Perhaps then, if we listen attentively, we shall hear, amid the uproar of empires and nations, a faint flutter of wings, the gentle stirring of life and hope. Some will say that this hope lies in a nation; others, in a man. I believe rather that it is awakened, revived, nourished by millions of solitary individuals whose deeds and works every day negate frontiers and the crudest implications of history. As a result, there shines forth fleetingly the ever threatened truth that each and every man, on the foundation of his own suffering and joys, builds for all.

She never wanted the truth . . . She wanted you. She would have taken from you what you could give her, and been glad of it even if she had known it false. You might have lied to her from pity, and she have seen you and felt you lie, and yet—since it was all for tenderness—she would have thanked you and blessed you and clung to you but the more. For that was your strength, my dear man—that she loves you with passion.

She existed in that view wholly for the small house in Chelsea; the moral of which moreover, of course, was that the more one gave oneself the less of one was left. There were always people to snatch at one, and it would never occur to them that they were eating one up. They did that without tasting.

he took a cable which had been service on a blue-bowed ship, made one end fast to a high column in the portico, and threw the other over the round-house, high up, so that their feet would not touch the ground. As when long-winged thrushes or doves get entangled in a snare . . . so the women's heads were held fast in a row, with nooses round their necks, to bring them to the most pitiable end. For a little while their feet twitched, but not for very long.

Why should a set of people have been put in motion, on such a scale and with such an air of being equipped for a profitable journey, only to break down without an accident, to stretch themselves in the wayside dust without a reason?

Reyna had always pictured him as solid white with dove-like wings, but Pegasus’s coat was rich brown, mottled with red and gold around the muzzle – which Hedge claimed were the marks where the stallion had emerged from the blood and ichor of his beheaded mother, Medusa. Pegasus’s wings were the colours of an eagle’s – gold, white, brown and rust – which made him look much more handsome and regal than plain white. He was the colour of all horses, representing all his offspring.

Satisfied to die in the flower of her youth?" "Well, at peace with you." "Oh, 'peace'!" he murmured with his eyes on the fire. "The peace of having loved." He raised his eyes to her. "Is that peace?" "Of having been loved," she went on. "That is. Of having," she wound up, "realised her passion. She wanted nothing more. She had had all she wanted.

His absence from her for so many weeks had had such an effect upon him that his demands, his desires had grown; and only the night before, as his ship steamed, beneath summer stars, in sight of the Irish coast, he had felt all the force of his particular necessity.

Susie had an intense thought and then an effusion. ‘My dear child, we move in a labyrinth.’ ‘Of course we do. That’s just the fun of it!’ said Milly with a strange gaiety. Then she added: ‘Don’t tell me that—in this for instance—there are not abysses. I want abysses.

After the sharp-eyed jay and the roaring lion, peace will come on dove's gentle wing." - Warriors,Omen of the Stars,The Fourth Apprentince

This was immense, and they thus took final possession of it. They

typical frivolous always ended by sacrificing to vulgar pleasures. She

What’s a man,’ she pursued, ‘especially an ambitious one, without a variety of ideas?

She hadn't given up yet, and the broken sentence, if she was the last word, would end with a sort of meaning.

Life had met him so, half-way, and had turned round so to walk with him, placing a hand in his arm and fondly leaving him to choose the pace.

Pearls have such a magic that they suit every one.’ ‘They would uncommonly suit you,’ he frankly returned. ‘Oh yes, I see myself!

you mustn't think life will be for you all hard things. You've the right to be happy. You must make up your mind to it. You must accept any form in which happiness may come.

The days, whether lapsing or lingering, were a stiff reality; the suppression of anxiety was a thin idea; the taste of life itself was the taste of suspense.

The vice in the air, otherwise, was too much like the breath of fate.

I'm a survivor—a survivor of a general wreck . . . everyone else has gone . . . I'm all that's left.

Don't fail me. It would kill me.

I cling to some saving romance in things.

There were complications, there were questions; but they were so much more together than they were anything else.

I don't know, upon my honour, what I'm doing.

I love you. It's because I love you that I'm here.

I'll marry you, mind you, in an hour." "As we were?" "As we were." But she turned to the door, and her headshake was now the end. "We shall never be again as we were!

The graceful wings of a dove lead to the endless imagination in a dream wings of pain.

Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest.” —PSALM 55:6

The chance had come - it was an extraordinary one - on the day she first met Densher; and it was to the girl's lasting honour that she knew on the spot what she was in the presence of.

DOVES People want you to be happy. Don’t keep serving them your pain! If you could untie your wings and free your soul of jealousy, you and everyone around you would fly up like doves. WHEN

My dear man, what has happened to you?" "Well, that I can bear it no longer. That's simply what has happened. Something has snapped, has broken in me, and here I am. It's as I am that you must have me.

There was a sort of spell in the sense that nobody in the world knew where she was. It was the first time in her life that this had happened; somebody, everybody appeared to have known before, at every instant of it, where she was; so that she was now suddenly able to put it to herself that that hadn't been a life.

The strangest thing of all for Milly was perhaps the uplifted assurance and indifference with which she could simply give back the particular bland stare that appeared in such cases to mark civilisation at its highest. It

Takes him to her heart and yet thinks he cheats?" "Yes," said Kate—"that's the way people are. What they think of their enemies, goodness knows, is bad enough; but I'm still more struck with what they think of their friends.

Suddenly she said to him with extraordinary beauty: "I engage myself to you forever." The beauty was in everything, and he could have separated nothing—couldn't have thought of her face as distinct from the whole joy. Yet her face had a new light. "And I pledge you—I call God to witness!—every spark of my faith; I give you every drop of my life.

The Dove Fly your flight my dear dove Sing your song, make it reach the ocean I want my freedom I want to live in peace I want to sing your song To have your wings To be able to fly I want my destiny to leave the path that it is taking now.

His full parenthesis was closed, and he was once more but a sentence, of a sort, in the general text, the text that, from his momentary street-corner, showed as a great grey page of print that somehow managed to be crowded without being ‘fine’.

there were many things - perhaps even too many - New York could give; but this was felt to make no difference in the constant fact that what you had most to do, under the discipline of life, or of death, was really to feel your situation as grave.

What did you discover about the shooter?” Jude asked as he struggled to sit upright. “Once I spotted him on the rooftop, I ran up the back stairs to follow him. He was long gone, but he left something behind,” Sussex said. “Oh?” “Yes, I’ll take it upon myself to investigate it.” Jude opened his eyes, his stare focused on the duke. “Do you need my help?” Alynwick snorted. “A soiled dove with a broken wing,” he drawled. “What use would you be?” Jude grumbled, “I’ll be fine by the morning.

The famous field altar came from the Jewish firm of Moritz Mahler in Vienna, which manufactured all kinds of accessories for mass as well as religious objects like rosaries and images of saints. The altar was made up of three parts, lberally provided with sham gilt like the whole glory of the Holy Church. It was not possible without considerable ingenuity to detect what the pictures painted on these three parts actually represented. What was certain was that it was an altar which could have been used equally well by heathens in Zambesi or by the Shamans of the Buriats and Mongols. Painted in screaming colors it appeared from a distance like a coloured chart intended for colour-blind railway workers. One figure stood out prominently - a naked man with a halo and a body which was turning green, like the parson's nose of a goose which has begun to rot and is already stinking. No one was doing anything to this saint. On the contrary, he had on both sides of him two winged creatures which were supposed to represent angels. But anyone looking at them had the impression that this holy naked man was shrieking with horror at the company around him, for the angels looked like fairy-tale monsters and were a cross between a winged wild cat and the beast of the apocalypse. Opposite this was a picture which was meant to represent the Holy Trinity. By and large the painter had been unable to ruin the dove. He had painted a kind of bird which could equally well have been a pigeon or a White Wyandotte. God the Father looked like a bandit from the Wild West served up to the public in an American film thriller. The Son of God on the other hand was a gay young man with a handsome stomach draped in something like bathing drawers. Altogether he looked a sporting type. The cross which he had in his hand he held as elegantly as if it had been a tennis racquet. Seen from afar however all these details ran into each other and gave the impression of a train going into a station.

There was something deep within him that he had absolutely shown to no one—to the companion of these walks in particular not a bit more than he could help; but he was none the less haunted, under its shadow, with a dire apprehension of its publicity.

Kuljeskelen täällä. En kyllästy tähän. Eikä minun pitäisikään - tämä sopii minulle niin hyvin. Jumaloin tätä paikkaa. Minulla ei ole pienintäkään halua luopua tästä. -Teistä olisi siis mieluisaa elää täällä? -Luullakseni minusta olisi mieluisaa kuolla täällä.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox gave evidence of her understanding of the power of the subconscious mind when she wrote: "You never can tell what a thought will do In bringing you hate or love-For thoughts are things, and their airy wings Are swifter than carrier doves. They follow the law of the universe-Each thing creates its kind, And they speed O'er the track to bring you back Whatever went out from your mind.

Why, Tea Cake? Whut good do combin’ mah hair do you? It’s mah comfortable, not yourn.” “It’s mine too. Ah ain’t been sleepin’ so good for more’n uh week cause Ah been wishin’ so bad tuh git mah hands in yo’ hair. It’s so pretty. It feels jus’ lak underneath uh dove’s wing next to mah face.

I do nothing for any one in the world but you. But for you I'll do anything." "Good, good," said Kate. "That's how I like you." He waited again an instant. "Then you swear to it?" "To 'it'? To what?" "Why, that you do 'like' me. For it's only for that, you know, that I'm letting you do—well, God knows what with me.

The charm turned on them a face that was cold in its beauty, that was full of a poetry never to be theirs, that spoke, with an ironic smile, of a possible but forbidden life. It all rolled afresh over Milly: 'Oh, the impossible romance—!' The romance for her, yet once more, would be to sit there for ever, through all her time, as in a fortress; and the idea became an image of never going down, of remaining aloft in the divine, dustless air, where she would hear but the plash of the water against stone. The great floor on which they moved was at an altitude, and this prompted the rueful fancy. 'Ah, not to go down—never, never to go down!' she strangely sighed to her friend.

-¿No estará pensando en marcharse? - ¿Es no moverse lo mismo que marcharse?

under the long and discurtained ordeal of the morrow’s dawn, that

People want you to be happy. Don’t keep serving them your pain. If you could untie your wings and free your soul of jealousy, you and everyone around you would fly up like doves.

A snow white dove now stood before him, glistening in the sun. The dove tested its wings with a couple of flaps, then soared away in a blinding flurry of white.

She had to take from him again, on this, one of his long looks, and she took it to its deepest, its headiest dregs.

We've played our dreadful game, and we've lost. We owe it to ourselves, we owe it to our feeling for ourselves and for each other, not to wait another day.

We shall be so right . . . that we shall be strong; we shall only wonder at our past fear. It will seem an ugly madness. It will seem a bad dream.

That's the least part of it—after it nothing will matter.

Because she has seen for herself. I've told her nothing. She's a person who does see.

Do you imagine I can see you suffer and not say a word?

I'm sure you've an excellent spirit; but don't try to bear more things than you need.

It was as if her doom so floated her on that she couldn't stop.

It was nothing, but it was somehow everything—it was that something for each of them had happened.

She's beautiful, but I don't say she's easy to know." "Ah, she's a thousand and one things!

If you decline to understand me I wholly decline to understand you.

The broken charm of the world about was broken into smaller pieces.

She sat with him at any rate, in the grey clearance—as sad as a winter dawn—made by their meeting.

There were immensities between you.

I dare say," Densher granted, "we were both thinking of her." "You were neither of you thinking of any one else.

He knew soon enough that it was of himself he was afraid, and that even, if he didn't take care, he should infallibly be more so.

He was gathering everything up, everything he should tell her.

Don't you know?" "How should I, my dear—in the absence of everything?

You look upset—you've certainly been tormented. You're not well.

Your desire is to escape everything?" "Everything.

He saw her try, for a time, to appear to consider it; but he saw her also not consider it.

Should you positively like to live here?" "I think I should like," said poor Milly after an instant, "to die here.

His secretary of many years’ standing, Theodora Bosanquet, was struck by this persistent aspect of the Jamesian sensibility: ‘When he walked out of the refuge of his study and into the world and looked about him, he saw a place of torment, where creatures of prey perpetually thrust their claws into the quivering flesh of the doomed, defenceless children of light.

SHE COULDN’T have said what it was, in the conditions, that renewed the whole solemnity, but by the end of twenty minutes a kind of wistful hush had fallen upon them, as before something poignant in which her visitor also participated. That was nothing verily but the perfection of the charm—or nothing rather but their excluded disinherited state in the presence of it. The

Concerning this desert, Jeremiah writes: ‘I will lead my beloved into the wilderness and will speak to her in her heart’ (Hosea 2:14) . . . The prophet hungered for this desolate self-abandonment when he said: ‘Who will give me the wings of a dove that I may fly away and be at rest?’ (Psalm 55:6). Where do we find peace and rest? Only in abandonment, in the desert and in isolation from all creatures . . . Now you could say . . . if all this must be removed, then it is grievous if God allows us to remain without any support. ‘Woe to me that my exile is prolonged’ (Psalm 120:5), as the prophet says, if God prolongs my dereliction without casting his light upon me, speaking to me or working in me, as you are suggesting here. If we thus enter a state of pure nothingness, is it not better that we should do something in order to drive away the darkness and dereliction? Should we not pray or read or listen to a sermon or do something else that is virtuous in order to help ourselves? No, certainly not! The very best thing you can do is to remain still for as long as possible . . . You cannot think about or desire this preparation more swiftly than God can carry it out . . . You should know that God must pour himself into you and act upon you where he finds you prepared . . . just as the sun must pour itself forth and cannot hold itself back when the air is pure and clean. Certainly, it would be a major failing if God did not perform great works in you, pouring great goodness into you, in so far as he finds you empty and there.

There were no ravens to be seen. Abruptly a fox burst out of the trees, running hard. Ravens poured from the branches after it. The beat of their wings almost drowned out a desperate whining from the fox. A black whirlwind dove and swirled around it. The fox’s jaws snapped at them, but they darted in, and darted away untouched, black beaks glistening wetly. The fox turned back toward the trees, seeking the safety of its den. It ran awkwardly now, head low, fur dark and bloody, and the ravens flapped around it, more and more of them at once, the fluttering mass thickening until it hid the fox completely. As suddenly as they had descended the ravens rose, wheeled, and vanished over the next rise to the south. A misshapen lump of torn fur marked what had been the fox.

I did a bit more wilting. It seemed to me that I was alone in a deserted smoking-room with a homicidal loony. It is a type of loony I particularly bar, and the homicidal loony I like least is one with a forty-four chest and biceps in proportion. His fingers, I noticed, were twitching, always a bad sign. ‘Oh, for the wings of a dove’ about summed up my feelings as I tried not to look at them.

Could she possibly have someone who really could love And add to her fins the wings of a dove So not only the waves could she enjoy through the day But soar 'bove the clouds, perhaps see a new way To enjoy a full life she didn't think she'd deserve Too far out of reach so far as she could observe The final decision she and she alone must make One heart is committed, but both are at stake

He had brought home to her, and always by remarks that were really quite soundless, the conception, hitherto ungrapsed, of some complete use of her wealth itself, some use of it as a counter-move to fate.

Thus 2t Grams confronts us with the same interpretive dilemma as the one in The Wings of the Dove: is the suicidal sacrificial gesture a true ethical act or not? In contrast to Wings, the answer here is yes: there is no narcissistic staging of one's death at work when Paul shoots himself, no manipulative strategy of using one's death as a gift destined to secretly sabotage what it appears to make possible.

You must have shadow and light source both. Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe. When from that tree, feathers and wings sprout on you, be quieter than a dove. Don’t open your mouth for even a cooooooo.

What makes my bed seem hard seeing it is soft? Or why slips downe the Coverlet so oft? Although the nights be long, I sleepe not tho, My sides are sore with tumbling to and fro. Were Love the cause, it's like I shoulde descry him, Or lies he close, and shoots where none can spie him? T'was so, he stroke me with a slender dart, Tis cruell love turmoyles my captive hart. Yeelding or striving doe we give him might, Lets yeeld, a burden easly borne is light. I saw a brandisht fire increase in strength, Which being not shakt, I saw it die at length. Yong oxen newly yokt are beaten more, Then oxen which have drawne the plow before. And rough jades mouths with stubburn bits are tome, But managde horses heads are lightly borne, Unwilling Lovers, love doth more torment, Then such as in their bondage feele content. Loe I confesse, I am thy captive I, And hold my conquered hands for thee to tie. What needes thou warre, I sue to thee for grace, With armes to conquer armlesse men is base, Yoke VenusDoves, put Mirtle on thy haire, Vulcan will give thee Chariots rich and faire. The people thee applauding thou shalte stand, Guiding the harmelesse Pigeons with thy hand. Yong men and women, shalt thou lead as thrall, So will thy triumph seeme magnificall. I lately cought, will have a new made wound, And captive like be manacled and bound. Good meaning, shame, and such as seeke loves wrack Shall follow thee, their hands tied at their backe. Thee all shall feare and worship as a King, Jo, triumphing shall thy people sing. Smooth speeches, feare and rage shall by thee ride, Which troopes hath alwayes bin on Cupids side: Thou with these souldiers conquerest gods and men, Take these away, where is thy honor then? Thy mother shall from heaven applaud this show, And on their faces heapes of Roses strow. With beautie of thy wings, thy faire haire guilded, Ride golden Love in Chariots richly builded. Unlesse I erre, full many shalt thou burne, And give woundes infinite at everie turne. In spite of thee, forth will thy arrowes flie, A scorching flame burnes all the standers by. So having conquerd Inde, was Bacchus hew, Thee Pompous birds and him two tygres drew. Then seeing I grace thy show in following thee, Forbeare to hurt thy selfe in spoyling mee. Beholde thy kinsmans Caesars prosperous bandes, Who gardes the conquered with his conquering hands. -- ELEGIA 2 (Quodprimo Amore correptus, in triumphum duci se a Cupidine patiatur)

Did he live in a false world, a world that had grown simply to suit him, and was his present slight irritation—in the face now of Jim's silence in particular—but the alarm of the vain thing menaced by the touch of the real?

From the mountain peaks for streams descend and flow near the town; in the cascades the white water is calling, but the mistis do not hear it. On the hillsides, on the plains, on the mountaintops the yellow flowers dance in the wind, but the mistis hardly see them. At dawn, against the cold sky, beyond the edge of the mountains, the sun appears; then the larks and doves sing, fluttering their little wings; the sheep and the colts run to and fro in the grass, while the mistis sleep or watch, calculating the weight of their steers. In the evening Tayta Inti gilds the sk, gilds the earth, but they sneeze, spur their horses on the road, or drink coffee, drink hot pisco. But in the hearts of the Puquios, the valley is weeping and laughing, in their eyes the sky and the sun are alive; within them the valley sings with the voice of the morning, of the noontide, of the afternoon, of the evening.

They had exchanged vows and tokens, sealed their rich compact, solemnized, so far as breathed words and murmured sounds and lighted eyes and clasped hands could do it, their agreement to belong only, and to belong tremendously, to each other.

Wasn't that what women always said they wanted to do when they deprecated the addresses of gentlemen they couldn't more intimately go on with? It was what they, no doubt, sincerely fancied they could make of men of whom they couldn't make husbands.

As mating doves that love calls to their nest glide through the air with motionless raised wings, borne by the sweet desire that fills each breast— Just so those spirits turned on the torn sky from the band where Dido whirls across the air; such was

Avete ragione che Millie non è facile a conoscere. Uno la vede, con intensità: la vede più di quanto non veda nessun altro; ma poi scopre che ciò non significa conoscerla, e che si può conoscere meglio una persona che non si riesca, diciamo, a "vedere" neppure appena la metà.

At childhood’s end, the houses petered out into playing fields, the factory, allotments kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth! In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry. The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods, away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake, my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem. I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf? Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws and went in search of a living bird – white dove – which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth. One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said, licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books. Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head, warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood. But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroom stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out, season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones. I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up. Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone. Little Red-Cap

It dispelled, on the spot—something, to the elder woman’s ear, in the sad, sweet sound of it—any ghost of any need of explaining. The sense was constant for her that their relation might have been afloat, like some island of the south, in a great warm sea that represented, for every conceivable chance, a margin, an outer sphere, of general emotion; and the effect of the occurrence of anything in particular was to make the sea submerge the island, the margin flood the text. The great wave now for a moment swept over. ‘I’ll go anywhere else in the world you like.

She stood there looking, consciously and rather seriously, at Mr. Ransom; a smile of exceeding faintness played about her lips—it was just perceptible enough to light up the native gravity of her face. It might have been likened to a thin ray of moonlight resting upon the wall of a prison.

I’d found my purpose. A Mothman. An Unseelie. A demonic plague doctor. All three of them had captured me, stolen my wings, and dragged me down into the darkness of their world…I was their dove and they were my demons— and we were the freaks of nature who had found love where no one else could.

It was Delaney's image that was present in her mind,waking or sleeping.It was Delaney's touch for which she yearned,the sound of his voice she desired to hear.It was Delaney she wanted close to her.It was Delaney,the other part of herself,the imtimate core of her,whom she missed to the point of pain

I saw the sky descending, black and white, Not blue, on Boston where the winters wore The skulls to jack-o’-lanterns on the slates, And Hunger’s skin-and-bone retrievers tore The chickadee and shrike. The thorn tree waits Its victim and tonight The worms will eat the deadwood to the foot Of Ararat: the scythers, Time and Death, Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath; The wild ingrafted olive and the root Are withered, and a winter drifts to where The Pepperpot, ironic rainbow, spans Charles River and its scales of scorched-earth miles. I saw my city in the Scales, the pans Of judgement rising and descending. Piles Of dead leaves char the air— And I am a red arrow on this graph Of Revelations. Every dove is sold. The Chapel’s sharp-shinned eagle shifts its hold On serpent-Time, the rainbow’s epitaph. In Boston serpents whistle at the cold. The victim climbs the altar steps and sings: “Hosannah to the lion, lamb, and beast Who fans the furnace-face of IS with wings: I breathe the ether of my marriage feast.” At the high altar, gold And a fair cloth. I kneel and the wings beat My cheek. What can the dove of Jesus give You now but wisdom, exile? Stand and live, The dove has brought an olive branch to eat.

Scenes are alluded to but not always witnessed—because in life, one sometimes arrives late, or not at all, to the big scene, even though one feels its aftershocks for years. Conversations are overheard, but not always completely understood, and sometimes, even the eavesdropping must be abruptly curtailed—as in life.

It was in seeing her that he felt what their interruption had been, and that they met across it even as persons whose adventures, on either side, in time and space, of the nature of perils and exiles, had had a peculiar strangeness. He wondered if he were as different for her as she herself had immediately appeared.

Seven centuries ago seven white doves rose from a deep valley flying to the snow-white summit of the mountain. One of the seven men who watched the flight said, "I see a black spot on the wing of the seventh dove." Today the people in that valley tell of seven black doves who flew to the summit of the snowy mountain.

Their box, their great common anxiety, what was it, in this grim breathing−space, but the practical question of life? They could live if they would; that is, like herself, they had been told so: she saw them all about her, on seats, digesting the information, recognising it again as something in a slightly different shape familiar enough, the blessed old truth that they would live if they could. All she thus shared with them made her wish to sit in their company; which she so far did that she looked for a bench that was empty, eschewing a still emptier chair that she saw hard by and for which she would have paid, with superiority, a fee.

But love itself does not argue. At first it is seen far off, like a beautiful bird of rare plumage, among flowers, on a morning in spring; it comes nearer, it is timid, it advances, it recedes, it poises on swiftly beating wings, it soars out of sight, but suddenly it is nearer than before; it changes shapes, and grows vast and terrible, till its flight is like the rushing of the whirlwind; then all is calm again, and in the stillness a sweet voice sings the chant of peace or the melancholy dirge of an endless regret; it is no longer the dove, nor the eagle, nor the storm that leaves ruin in its track—it is everything, it is life, it is the world itself, for ever and time without end, for good or evil, for such happiness as may pass all understanding, if God will, and if not, for undying sorrow

And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer Before all Temples th’upright heart and pure, Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss And mad’st it pregnant: What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That to the highth of this great Argument I may assert th’Eternal Providence, And justifie the ways of God to men.

What had come to pass within his walls lingered there as an obsession importunate to all his senses; it lived again, as a cluster of pleasant memories, at every hour and in every object; it made everything but itself irrelevant and tasteless. It remained, in a word, a conscious watchful presence, active on its own side, forever to be reckoned with, in face of which the effort at detachment was scarcely less futile than frivolous.

skin. Blue sparks writhed across his hands like tiny snakes. Rain washed his face. “This is the best,” he shouted, over the roar of the storm. As if it understood him, the bird began to rise higher, every wing-beat a clap of thunder, and it swooped and dove and tumbled through the dark clouds. “In my dream, I was hunting you,” said Shadow, his words ripped away by the wind. “In my dream. I had to bring back a feather.” Yes. The word was a static crackle in the radio of his mind. They

I heard a noise outside the house, and sat up. There was nothing to see inside the room except the living-room furniture. The wind is coming up, I thought. It's begun to blow through the trees. What I heard next happened all at once, a loud but slightly muffled sound. Logic was not part of this sequence. What I heard was the sound of wings beating, many large wings marking time. I thought of the pair of doves that flew to the backyard feeder every day and I said to myself, But this is the sound of hundreds. How can there be so many? Why would wings be beating at night?

Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings; Like her I go; I cannot say; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the merge, And saying; 'comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?' And circle moaning in the air: 'Is this the end? Is this the end?' And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn, That I have been an hour away.

Something suddenly, as if under a last determinant touch, welled up in him and overflowed—the sense of his good fortune and her variety, of the future she promised, the interest she supplied. "All women but you are stupid. How can I look at another? You're different and different—and then you're different again . . . Even 'society' won't know how good for it you are; it's too stupid, and you're beyond it. You'd have to pull it uphill—it's you yourself who are at the top. The women one meets—what are they but books one has already read? You're a whole library of the unknown, the uncut." He almost moaned, he ached, from the depth of his content. "Upon my word, I've a subscription!

I was a cottage maiden Hardened by sun and air, Contented with my cottage mates, Not mindful I was fair. Why did a great lord find me out, And praise my flaxen hair? Why did a great lord find me out To fill my heart with care? He lured me to his palace home— Woe's me for joy thereof— 10 To lead a shameless shameful life, His plaything and his love. He wore me like a silken knot, He changed me like a glove; So now I moan, an unclean thing, Who might have been a dove. O Lady Kate, my cousin Kate, You grew more fair than I: He saw you at your father's gate, Chose you, and cast me by. 20 He watched your steps along the lane, Your work among the rye; He lifted you from mean estate To sit with him on high. Because you were so good and pure He bound you with his ring: The neighbours call you good and pure, Call me an outcast thing. Even so I sit and howl in dust, You sit in gold and sing: 30 Now which of us has tenderer heart? You had the stronger wing. O cousin Kate, my love was true, Your love was writ in sand: If he had fooled not me but you, If you stood where I stand, He'd not have won me with his love Nor bought me with his land; I would have spit into his face And not have taken his hand. 40 Yet I've a gift you have not got, And seem not like to get: For all your clothes and wedding-ring I've little doubt you fret. My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride, Cling closer, closer yet: Your father would give lands for one To wear his coronet.

MOTHER NATURE was laying down some Law out there in the bayou night, and as befits the order of things, large feathered creatures dove off high branches, swooped low and stuck talons in smaller furry meals, and bandit-eyed coons came stealthily out of hollow logs and glommed finned, scaly chow from the still, brackish shallows, while all those things that slither waited, coiled, for the passing appearance of any prey absentminded, and where the bayou waters butted against land and a screened porch overlooked the boggy stage for these food-chain theatricals, Emil Jadick sat on the arm of the couch and wrapped up a lecture that had been real Type A in tone and content. He said, “And if either of you fucks up because you ain’t been listenin’ to me, I’ll take you off the calendar myself, understood?

Mankind - proud conqueror and king swings its flag of primal glory to the winds Titans of the power-myth that failed Neanderthal hunger for the flesh of war so frail So weak, so hollow-minded the primat flock responds the jester race submits For each day of war is a failure for man, enslaved in her mordial genes Illusions bleed from their fetid cores, bent to their rotten extremes We, the plague of Terra Firma, nature's grand and last mistake plant the poisoned seed of cancer, set the severed fruits awake Burning like frozen relics in god's archaic graveland Burn the visionaire Kill the ideaologies Mankind must die The doves and the angels return to their graves with flames on their pestilent wings while mushroom-clouds haunt their virginwhite skies to rape their utopian dreams Living the last days of evolution's end from the nest of humanity, the graveland vultures rend

Lady Harris's Fool is a cornucopia of sacred images, many of which reveal themselves only after long meditation (and the aid of a magnifying glass). He bursts into midair of existence from behind three swirling rings that issue from and return to his heart. These are the three veils of negativity (Ain, Ain Soph, and Ain Soph Aur)23 that Qabalists teach gave birth to the singularity of creation. His satchel is filled with the entire universe in the form of planetary and zodiacal coins. The Fool is the Holy Spirit itself. The dove, symbol of the Holy Spirit; the butterfly, symbol of transformation; winged globe, symbol of Mercurial air; and the Egyptian vulture-goddess Mauf24 pour from the Holy Grail in the Fool's right hand. Like the Virgin Mary, Maut became impregnated by the spirit (breath) of the wind. “The whole picture,” Crowley tells us, “is a glyph of the creative light.

Urgent Story" When the oracle said, ‘If you keep pigeons you will never lose home.’ I kept pigeons. They flicked their red eyes over me, a deft trampling of that humanly proud distance by which remaining aloof in it’s own fullness. I administered crumbs, broke sky with them like breaking the lemon-light of the soul's amnesia for what It wants but will neither take nor truh let go. How it revived me, to release them! And at that moment of flight to disavow the imprint, to tear their compass, out by the roots of some green meadow they might fly over on the way to an immaculate freedom, meadow in which a woman has taken off her blouse, then taken off the man's flannel shirt in their sky-drenched arc of one, then the other above each other's eyelids is a branding of daylight, the interior of its black ambush in which two joys lame the earth a while with heat and cloudwork under wing-beats. Then she was quiet with him. And he with her. The world hummed with crickets, with bees nudging the lupins. It is like that when the earth counts its riches—noisy with desire even when desire has strengthened our bodies and moved us into the soak of harmony. Her nipples in sunlight have crossed his palm wind-sweet with savor and the rest is so knelt before that when they stand upright the flight-cloud of my tamed birds shapes an arm too short for praise. Oracle, my dovecot is an over and over nearer to myself when its black eyes are empty. But by nightfall I am dark before dark if one bird is missing. Dove left open by love in a meadow, Dove commanding me not to know where it sank into the almost-night—for you I will learn to play the concertina, to write poems full of hateful jasmine and longing, to keep the dead alive, to sicken at the least separation. Dove, for whose sake I will never reach home.

The Black Crow and the White Dove There was once a black crow who liked a certain song called “The Seven Little Crows,” which began, Crow, Crow, Crow, why do you caw? Except in this song, crows in stories are bullies and villains who everyone hates. This troubled the black crow, who would ask himself, How come it’s always the crows who are the bad guys? One day, a white dove who had lost her way met the black crow. She asked, “Where does this path go?” Then the white dove stared down at the ground, looking lonely. The black crow wondered what was wrong, and asked, “What’s the matter?” On the point of tears, the white dove said, “I’ve been searching for the path to happiness for a long, long time, but I still can’t find it anywhere. And I’m supposed to be the bird of peace, too …” The black crow was surprised to learn that even a bird as beautiful and as loved by everyone as the white dove nonetheless had deep problems to worry about. His answer was this: “But all paths are one connected path.” The white dove looked taken aback by this unexpected answer. But after a time, she smiled. “How about that? So the path I’ve been searching for all this time is the path I am already on.” In excellent spirits, the white dove flew off, up into the blue sky. Then the black crow, too, turned his head skyward, then flapped his wings vigorously, and away he flew. And the black crow looked no less perfect against the deep blue than the white dove.

That’s when I hear Maysilee begin to scream. In a flash, I’m on my feet and thrashing through the smoky tunnel in the hedge. I spy bright patches of pink up ahead, hear honking, not unlike Lenore Dove’s geese. My ax is out of my belt, drawn and ready as I leave the holly bushes for a whirlwind of feathers. The two dozen waterbirds remind me of ones I’ve seen at the lake. Long-legged. Beaks like sword blades — thin, narrow, and deadly. Not cool blue gray, not paper white, but the color of the bubblegum sold at the Donners’ sweetshop. They dive again and again at Maysilee, who’s kneeling on the ground, trying to use a tarp as protection while she vehemently slices at them with her dagger. A couple of dead birds lie on the ground, but they have taken their toll. Blood blossoms from her cheek, her chest, the palm of her hand. Like Ampert’s squirrels, they have no interest in me. Programmed to target Maysilee in a very personal punishment. I hack away at the mutts with my ax, piling up a collection of rosy wings and legs like cattail stems, but they badly outnumber us. A bird swoops down at a sharp angle, driving its beak through her throat. As it withdraws, I decapitate it, slicing through the skinny neck. I realize Maysilee’s beyond recovery when the flock clears out. Falling to my knees beside her, I reach for her sound hand, which grasps mine like a vise. Her wounded one curls up and rests in her nest of necklaces, which lays in a pool of blood. Through the rasping of her breath, she attempts to speak, but the last mutt silenced her voice with its wicked beak. Mine seems silenced as well, as no words of comfort or hope or apology make it out. I just stare into those burning blue eyes, letting her know she’s not dying alone. She’s with family. She’s with me.

I can’t even see your face.” A strange chill still curled off of him like smoke and even though the glass garden was teeming with little lights, shades veiled him. “Is that what you want?” he said. “Would it make you trust me?” “It would be a start.” “You are impossible to please.” I said nothing. Amar leaned forward, and I felt the silken trails of his hood brush across my neck. My breath constricted. “Is that what you want? An unguarded gaze can spill a thousand secrets.” “I would know them anyway,” I said evenly. I waited for him to dissuade me, but when he remained silent, I reached out. Amar stood still, lean muscles tensed beneath his clothes. I could hear his breathing, see his chest rising and falling, smell that particular scent of mint and smoke that hung around him. Slowly, I untied the ends of the dove-gray hood. Small pearls snagged against the silk of his covering. Suddenly, his hands reached around my wrist. “I trust you,” he said. The hood fell to the ground, a mere rustle of silk against glass. I lifted my gaze, searching Amar’s face. He was young, and yet there was something worn about his features. I took in the stern line of his nose and the smooth expanse of tawny skin. His features possessed a lethal kind of elegance, like a predator at rest--bronzed jaw tapering to a knife’s point, lips curled in the faintest of grins and heavy brows casting dusky shadows over his eyes. When I looked at him, something stirred inside me. It felt like recognition sifted through dreams; like the moment before waking--when sleep blurred the true world, when beasts with sharp teeth and beautiful, winged things flew along the edges of your mind. Amar met my gaze and his eyes were raw. Burning. “Well?” he asked. There was no rebuke in his voice, only curiosity. “I see no secrets in your gaze,” I said. I see only night and smoke, dreams and glass, embers and wings. And I would not have you any other way.

The ingenious creativity of thought of mind comes at your lowest darkest point of life. Just like I have the tower's densities of being struck by their lightning… that pulls on me constantly into their constellations, yet that makes me reflect on the extraordinary level, or so I think. I always have to be one step ahead of them! You never know where they are at… they could be in the barn for all I know! Up to this point, I have never had anyone tell me what he or she truly thinks about me that goes for appearance, personality, or anything. So, if I would have to describe myself this is what I would say. I would have to say that I find my eyes to be the most striking thing about myself, at least that's what she said- what she has told me… the first time I met her. Oh- finely things were looking up for me when I met her. She said that my light blue eyes tell the stories of my life. You can see the emotional- feelings when gazing into them, or at least that is what she made me believe. So, we got a new reject in class this week named Maiara, she is a transfer student; I liked her as soon as I saw her, she is wild, sweet, and outstandingly suggestive! She was what I was looking for and everything I needed. There was a glowing connection at first sight on both of our faces. The look of shock and surprise from both of us at that moment was dreamlike! Our eyes were fixated on each other the first time in the tiny room, she was like a love dove that flapped her wings my way, I knew, at last, I had someone that would brighten my drab cell for me. She came in there with a breath of fresh air; she is the hope I needed. Maiara- Hi everyone…! The others groaned their welcomes in false enthusiasm, one even yawned loudly. So, who are you? She walked up to me and bent a little into me in front of my desk? Nevaeh! I am shrieking said with butterflies like jitters. Then she touched my hair, and brushed my chin and lower lip with her soft fingertips!

Franz tipped his wing and looked down on the P-38 he had wounded. It was circling downward, its engine coughing black smoke. Suddenly the hood of its canopy tumbled away in the slipstream. The pilot stood in the cockpit then dove toward the rear of the wing. The draft sucked his body under the forked tail. He free-fell from twelve thousand feet, passing through the clouds. “Pull it!” Franz shouted at the American, urging him to open his chute. When the pilot’s parachute finally popped full of air, Franz felt relief. The pilot drifted lazily downward while his P-38 splashed into the sea. Franz flew lower and saw the P-38 pilot climb into a tiny yellow raft against the whitecaps. Franz radioed Olympus to tell them to relay the American’s position to the Italians. He guessed they were seventy kilometers west of Marettimo and asked if the island could send a boat to pick up the man. For a second, Franz considered hovering over the man in the raft like an aerial beacon to steer a boat to the spot, but he shook the thought from his mind. It would put him at risk. If a prowling flight of enemy fighters found him, Franz knew he, too, could be shot into the sea. Franz and Willi departed the scene, leaving the pilot in his raft to fate. As they flew away, Franz wished the man a strong westerly wind. The American who looked up from the raft was Second Lieutenant Conrad Bentzlin, a young man from a large Swedish-American family in Saint Paul, Minnesota. He was quiet and hardworking, having taught himself English in high school. He had paid his way through the University of Minnesota by working for the government’s Civilian Conservation Corps program, cutting firebreaks in the forests of northern Minnesota. Among his buddies of the 82nd Fighter Group, Bentzlin was known as “the smartest guy in the unit.” Far from shore Bentzlin floated alone. A day later, another flight of P-38s flew over him and, through a hole in the clouds, saw him waving his arms from a raft. But he was in the middle of the sea and they could do nothing. Bentzlin would never be seen again.*

The Phoenix and the Turtle Let the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather'd king; Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence: Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the Turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence. So they lov'd, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance and no space was seen 'Twixt this Turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine That the Turtle saw his right Flaming in the Phoenix' sight: Either was the other's mine. Property was thus appalled That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was called. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together, To themselves yet either neither, Simple were so well compounded; That it cried, "How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love has reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain." Whereupon it made this threne To the Phoenix and the Dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene: Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclos'd, in cinders lie. Death is now the Phoenix' nest, And the Turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem but cannot be; Beauty brag but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer

Sorrow walked in my clothes before I did. Flocks of shadows followed me. One night I looked at the stars I thought were gods until they disappeared. Some say I smashed my father’s idols and walked away. Or walked towards a desert of barren promises. Or promises that are hummingbirds hovering for a moment then drifting away. Even now, walking towards that mountain, sometimes I will watch my shadow sitting beneath a plane tree, casting dice, ignoring my steps. Some of you made me a founder but it was only that shadow. Some of you made me your father, but it was yourselves you were describing. You plant a tree, you dig a well, and it brings life, that’s all. Everything else is the heart’s mirage. Except what begins inside you. Except Sarah. When she stepped inside my dream the curtains shivered, whole mountains entered the room. It always seemed a question of which love to honor. The land I loved fills with fire. Who should we listen to? It’s true, He offered the world and I offered only myself. But I thought His words were coffins. I was frantic for any scrap of shade. Now everything is shade. Your old newspapers are taken up by the wind like pairs of broken wings. Each window, each door is a wound. One track erases another track. One bomb. One rock, one rubber bullet. What can I tell you? Where have you left your own morning of promises? You remember Isaac, maybe Ishmael, but not the love that led me there. Not Sarah. Just to hear the sound of her eyelids opening, or her plants pushing the air aside as they reach for the sun, twilight filling her fingers like fruit. This afternoon a flock of doves settled on my porch. Their silence took the shape of all I ever wanted to say. Today, the miracle you want aches inside the trees. Why believe anything except what is unbelievable? I never thought of it as a trial, not any of it. Now the leaves turn into messages that are simply impossible to read. The roots turn into roads as they break through the surface. How can I even know what I mean? Beneath the hem of night the rain falls asleep on the grass. We have to turn into each other. One heart inside the other’s heart. One love. One word. Inside us, our shadows will walk into water, the water will walk into the sky. Blind. Faithful. Inside us the music turns into a flock of birds. Theirs is a song whose promise we must believe the way the moon believes the earth, the fire believes the wood, that is, for no reason, for no reason at all.

The Monk in the Kitchen I ORDER is a lovely thing; On disarray it lays its wing, Teaching simplicity to sing. It has a meek and lowly grace, Quiet as a nun's face. Lo—I will have thee in this place! Tranquil well of deep delight, All things that shine through thee appear As stones through water, sweetly clear. Thou clarity, That with angelic charity Revealest beauty where thou art, Spread thyself like a clean pool. Then all the things that in thee are, Shall seem more spiritual and fair, Reflection from serener air— Sunken shapes of many a star In the high heavens set afar. II Ye stolid, homely, visible things, Above you all brood glorious wings Of your deep entities, set high, Like slow moons in a hidden sky. But you, their likenesses, are spent Upon another element. Truly ye are but seemings— The shadowy cast-oft gleamings Of bright solidities. Ye seem Soft as water, vague as dream; Image, cast in a shifting stream. III What are ye? I know not. Brazen pan and iron pot, Yellow brick and gray flag-stone That my feet have trod upon— Ye seem to me Vessels of bright mystery. For ye do bear a shape, and so Though ye were made by man, I know An inner Spirit also made, And ye his breathings have obeyed. IV Shape, the strong and awful Spirit, Laid his ancient hand on you. He waste chaos doth inherit; He can alter and subdue. Verily, he doth lift up Matter, like a sacred cup. Into deep substance he reached, and lo Where ye were not, ye were; and so Out of useless nothing, ye Groaned and laughed and came to be. And I use you, as I can, Wonderful uses, made for man, Iron pot and brazen pan. V What are ye? I know not; Nor what I really do When I move and govern you. There is no small work unto God. He required of us greatness; Of his least creature A high angelic nature, Stature superb and bright completeness. He sets to us no humble duty. Each act that he would have us do Is haloed round with strangest beauty; Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks Of his plainest child he asks. When I polish the brazen pan I hear a creature laugh afar In the gardens of a star, And from his burning presence run Flaming wheels of many a sun. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. When I cleanse this earthen floor My spirit leaps to see Bright garments trailing over it, A cleanness made by me. Purger of all men's thoughts and ways, With labor do I sound Thy praise, My work is done for Thee. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. Therefore let me spread abroad The beautiful cleanness of my God. VI One time in the cool of dawn Angels came and worked with me. The air was soft with many a wing. They laughed amid my solitude And cast bright looks on everything. Sweetly of me did they ask That they might do my common task And all were beautiful—but one With garments whiter than the sun Had such a face Of deep, remembered grace; That when I saw I cried—"Thou art The great Blood-Brother of my heart. Where have I seen thee?"—And he said, "When we are dancing round God's throne, How often thou art there. Beauties from thy hands have flown Like white doves wheeling in mid air. Nay—thy soul remembers not? Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot.

Naturally, without intending to, I transitioned from these dreams in which I healed myself to some in which I cared for others: I am flying over the Champs-Élysées Avenue in Paris. Below me, thousands of people are marching, demanding world peace. They carry a cardboard dove a kilometer long with its wings and chest stained with blood. I begin to circle around them to get their attention. The people, astonished, point up at me, seeing me levitate. Then I ask them to join hands and form a chain so that they can fly with me. I gently take one hand and lift. The others, still holding hands, also rise up. I fly through the air, drawing beautiful figures with this human chain. The cardboard dove follows us. Its bloodstains have vanished. I wake up with the feeling of peace and joy that comes from good dreams. Three days later, while walking with my children along the Champs-Élysées Avenue, I saw an elderly gentleman under the trees near the obelisk whose entire body was covered by sparrows. He was sitting completely still on one of the metal benches put there by the city council with his hand outstretched, holding out a piece of cake. There were birds flitting around tearing off crumbs while others waited their turn, lovingly perched on his head, his shoulders, his legs. There were hundreds of birds. I was surprised to see tourists passing by without paying much attention to what I considered a miracle. Unable to contain my curiosity, I approached the old man. As soon as I got within a couple of meters of him, all the sparrows flew away to take refuge in the tree branches. “Excuse me,” I said, “how does this happen?” The gentleman answered me amiably. “I come here every year at this time of the season. The birds know me. They pass on the memory of my person through their generations. I make the cake that I offer. I know what they like and what ingredients to use. The arm and hand must be still and the wrist tilted so that they can clearly see the food. And then, when they come, stop thinking and love them very much. Would you like to try?” I asked my children to sit and wait on a nearby bench. I took the piece of cake, reached my hand out, and stood still. No sparrow dared approach. The kind old man stood beside me and took my hand. Immediately, some of the birds came and landed on my head, shoulders, and arm, while others pecked at the treat. The gentleman let go of me. Immediately the birds fled. He took my hand and asked me to take my son’s hand, and he another hand, so that my children formed a chain. We did. The birds returned and perched fearlessly on our bodies. Every time the old man let go of us, the sparrows fled. I realized that for the birds when their benefactor, full of goodness, took us by the hand, we became part of him. When he let go of us, we went back to being ourselves, frightening humans. I did not want to disrupt the work of this saintly man any longer. I offered him money. He absolutely would not accept. I never saw him again. Thanks to him, I understood certain passages of the Gospels: Jesus blesses children without uttering any prayer, just by putting his hands on them (Matthew 19:13–15). In Mark 16:18, the Messiah commands his apostles, “They shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” St. John the Apostle says mysteriously in his first epistle, 1.1, “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.

When God of old came down from heaven, In power and wrath He came; Before His feet the clouds were riven, Half darkness and half flame. * * * * * * But when He came the second time, He came in power and love; Softer than gale at morning prime Hover'd His holy Dove. The fires that rush'd on Sinai down In sudden torrents dread, Now gently light, a glorious crown, On every sainted head. Like arrows went those lightnings forth, Wing'd with the sinner's doom; But these, like tongues o'er all the earth, Proclaiming life to come. And as on Israel's awe-struck ear The voice, exceeding loud, The trump, that angels wake to hear, Thrill'd from the deep, dark cloud— So, when the Spirit of our God Came down His flock to find, A voice from heaven was heard abroad, A rushing, mighty wind. * * * * * * It fills the Church of God; it fills The sinful world around; Only in stubborn hearts and wills No place for it is found. J. KEBLE.

She grows within me She wakes up like a beautiful dream in my mind, Seeking something and desperately trying to find, My memories where she lives everywhere, And as she discovers her thoughts dashing here and there, In every corner of my mind, She loves me in ways refined and undefined, As she discovers my true feelings of love, That fly always unto her, bearing the wings of dove, Then as she dislodges herself intentionally, From this state of loving me endlessly, She wanders tirelessly in the garden of life, To pick a rose that represents love and life, And gifts it to me, Then as its scent floods through me, She gushes like a feeling within me, And how I love in this state to be, Forever within her, and she within me, Where she is not she, I am not who I am, Because we have fused together and that is now who she is and who I am, Two lovers existing as one, One heartbeat, one passion, one strife, one feeling, no other thoughts, none, And as this feelings grows over me, I feel a sense of infinite glee, And ah the wonder that now I can see, Her holding me in her arms in that embrace of eternity, In the light of the day, in the dark of the night, It is she, who now is my only delight, And she lives in my mind, in its thoughts, in my memories all, It is a feeling that nothing can uninstall, I no more feel anything, I only see her wherever I see, And this is how, now I wish it to be, She and I , where her mind grows inside me, And creates a sea, the endless sea, Where we lie hidden from the sun, the moon and the Heaven too, And I confess ceaselessly to her, I love you, I do, yes, I do! In the form of waves in the sea and in the form of tender breeze, So begins our romance that is not meant to cease.

a large empty cross, surmounted by a christogram within a wreath, conceivably a replacement for the figure of Christ who would normally be positioned among his disciples. This motif is the unifying element of the group and often is referred to as the crux invicta (the unconquered cross). Ordinarily, doves perch on the horizontal arms of the cross, and ribbons flow from the wreath. An eagle often holds the wreath in his beak, and the busts of the personified sun and moon, Sol and Luna, appear beneath his spread wings.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox gave evidence of her understanding of the power of the subconscious mind when she wrote: “You never can tell what a thought will do In bringing you hate or love— For thoughts are things, and their airy wings Are swifter than carrier doves. They follow the law of the universe— Each thing creates its kind, And they speed O’er the track to bring you back Whatever went out from your mind.

The dove, the chosen symbol of this deified queen, is commonly represented with an olive branch in her mouth, as she herself in her human form also is seen bearing the olive branch in her hand; and from this form of representing her, it is highly probably that she has derived the name by which she is commonly known, for "Z'emir-amit' means "The branch-bearer." When the goddess was thus represented as the Dove with the olive branch, there can be no doubt that the symbol had partly reference to the story of the flood; but there was much more in the symbol than a mere memorial of that great event. "A branch," as had been already proved, was the symbol of the deified son, and when the deified mother was represented as a Dove, what could the meaning of this representation be but just to identify her with the Spirit of all grace, that brooded, dove-like, over the deep at the creation; for in the sculptures at Nineveh, as we have seen, the wings and tail of the dove represented the third member of the idolatrous Assyrian trinity.

She hadn't been just a once-through reader either. Brothers Karamazov, Mill on the Floss, Wings of the Dove, Magic Mountain, over and over again. She would pick one up, thinking that she would just read that special bit -and find herself unable to stop until the whole thing was redigested

Jenny Diski lies here. But tells the truth over there”,’ I instructed. ‘Also, I’d like a dove, a winged angel, an anchor and an open book, properly carved on a nice piece of granite.

Sweetly the summer air came up to the tumulus, the grass sighed softly, the butterflies went by, sometimes alighting on the green dome. Two thousand years! Summer after summer the blue butterflies had visited the mound, the thyme had flowered, the wind sighed in the grass. The azure morning had spread its arms over the low tomb; and full glowing noon burned on it; the purple of sunset rosied the sward. Stars, ruddy in the vapour of the southern horizon, beamed at midnight through the mystic summer night, which is dusky and yet full of light. White mists swept up and hid it; dews rested on the turf; tender harebells drooped; the wings of the finches fanned the air—finches whose colours faded from the wings how many centuries ago! Brown autumn dwelt in the woods beneath; the rime of winter whitened the beech clump on the ridge; again the buds came on the wind-blown hawthorn bushes, and in the evening the broad constellation of Orion covered the east. Two thousand times! Two thousand times the woods grew green, and ring-doves built their nests. Day and night for two thousand years—light and shadow sweeping over the mound—two thousand years of labour by day and slumber by night. Mystery gleaming in the stars, pouring down in the sunshine, speaking in the night, the wonder of the sun and of far space, for twenty centuries round about this low and green-grown dome. Yet all that mystery and wonder is as nothing to the Thought that lies therein, to the spirit that I feel so close.

I'd seen the still air shattered by the flight of doves flapping their wings as if pulling themselves free of the day. They swooped and plummeted above the tile rooftops, while the children's screams whirled and seemed to turn blue in the dusk sky.

Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Every little dove needs a predator with sharp teeth to slice through the restraints wrapped around your beautiful wings.

because all I could think as I dove across the room was, Ix’s tits, how did I do that?

But I didn’t release him, my incisors digging deep, the hot warmth of his blood flowing over my tongue. I swallowed. Once. Twice. I couldn’t hold on longer than that. It would have to be enough. And as I released him and returned to the fight, I prayed it would be. “What in the skies were you doing?” he spat. Claws sliced my left shoulder. More at my right forearm. Ishqa barely held off one that dove for my throat. I waited. And then I felt an unfamiliar magic bubbling up within me. Ishqa’s magic. My greatest shame. My curse. This was my horrible gift — my ability to steal the magic of others. It was such a dirty, shameful thing that I barely knew how to use it. I had never done this before with magic so unfamiliar to my own, never mind a power that would force my very body to change. I imagined wings. I felt wings. And to my frantic relief, slowly, I felt them shifting.

Once upon a time, there was a colony of water bugs. They were a close colony, a family. Where one went, the others went. But every so often, one would straggle away on their own, crawl onto a lily pad, and never return. This was a great mystery to the family of water bugs. They couldn’t figure out what was happening to their family members, or why they disappeared. They talked about it often, and worried about it, but they could never figure it out.” Finn opens his eyes now, and stares out at the water, past me, past the waves, and out to the horizon. He fixes his gaze on the red lighthouse in the distance, on the pelicans that dive for their dinner around it, and the waves that break apart against the rocks. “Well, one day, another water bug climbed onto the lily pad, drawn there by invisible forces from within itself, forces it didn’t understand and couldn’t control. As it sat there in the sun, it transformed into a beautiful dragonfly. It shed its water bug skin, and sprouted iridescent wings that gleamed in the sunlight. Wings so large and strong, it was able to fly into the air, doing loops in the sky. “The new dragonfly was ecstatic with it’s new body and thought to itself, ‘I need to go back and tell the others. They need to know that this is what happens so they won’t be scared.’ So he dipped and dove through the air, directly at the water. But unfortunately, he couldn’t dive below the surface to where the water-bugs were swimming. In his new form, the dragonfly was no longer able to communicate with his family. He felt at peace, though, because he knew that someday, his family would all transform too, and they’d all be together again.” Finn

The science of innocence is complex and technical—I shall not worry your little ears with such talk. Suffice it to say the hymen is irrelevant, as irrelevant to us as trousers. The word innocent means without harm—did you know? Your mother ought to have taught you what a dictionary was. There is some debate, when unicorns gather, as to what, exactly, the definition ought to be: one who has not been harmed, or one who has done no harm. The smell is different, of course, and everyone has their tastes. I have always held that those who do no harm are the most rarefied creatures—which is why we draw back in such horror when the huntsmen come. Suddenly the dove who opened its little wings to us is a dove no longer, but a thing which has caused harm, great harm, which has brought arrows and knives, and smells like burning crusts, scorched flour.

Dove with eagle wings, so soon you sleep! and, my cheeks brimming with tears, on my knees, under the light of sorrowing stars, I kiss your divine verses. How your lyre—oh sublime dreamer! bears daylight in its sapphire strings, your voice will be heard for centuries; elegy immortal and most sweet...

poet Harold Hart Crane #203 on top 500 poets Poet's Page Poems Comments Stats E-Books Biography Videos Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Poems by Harold Hart Crane : 6 / 38 « prev. poem next poem » Exile - Poem by Harold Hart Crane Autoplay next video My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, -- No, -- nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell', And with the day, distance again expands Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell. Yet, love endures, though starving and alone. A dove's wings clung about my heart each night With surging gentleness, and the blue stone Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.

My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, -- No, -- nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell', And with the day, distance again expands Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell. Yet, love endures, though starving and alone. A dove's wings clung about my heart each night With surging gentleness, and the blue stone Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.

You should introduce me to your friend.” Reacher stepped up and said his name and shook her hand. It felt like a dove’s wing in a gorilla’s paw.

He smiles. I sit a few feet away and watch as he unpacks the linen bag. “Torin packed this, not Rayna, so who knows what we’ll find.” “Eye of newt and toe of frog,” I mutter. “Wool of bat and tongue of dog.” He smiles, waiting for me to pick up the next verse. “Sorry. That’s all I know.” He props his arms on his knees. “‘Adder’s fork and blind worm’s sting,’” he continues, affecting a macabre tone, “‘lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing, for a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.’” “Yum. Breakfast of champions. Is howlet an owl?” “It is indeed.” “And blind worm must be a snake?” “No. Blind worms are lizards with no legs.” “That makes sense. That’s why those were added separately—the lizard legs.” “No respectable brew is complete without them.” “There should be some soft ingredients in there for flavor balance, like butterfly wings and dove’s feathers.” His eyebrows rise. “You’d eat butterfly wings?” “Never. I don’t know why I said that. I love butterflies.” “A symbol of rebirth and resurrection, I might add.” “Subtle, Samrael. Real subtle.” I catch myself smiling. But if he’s good—if he’s really changed—then smiling is fine. Right?

Poem against War Bonfires burn brightly ”I see what you don’t see” Deathly pale rattles the sky. The children have grown old; Their voices speak of the war – Your dreams are like land mines, One slip, and the game is over. In search of the olive branch, A dove appears in the waters of hatred. ”Scorched Wing” No hope is dawning in the sky.

So he repeated what had happened to him nine hundred years before. He would make amends tonight by joining with-no, overring his past. Cleaving. It was the only way. He rolled back his shoulders, unleashed his trembling wings into the darkness. He could feel them catch the wind at his back. At aurora of light painted the sky a hundred feet above him. It was bright enough to blind a mortal, bright enough to catch the attention of seven squabbling angels. Commotion from the other side of the boulder. Shouting and gasps and the beat of wings coming closer. Daniel propelled himself off the ground, flying fast and hard so that he soared over the boulder just as Cam came around behind it.They missed each other by a wingspan,but Daniel kept moving, swooped down upon his past self as fast as his love for Luce could take him. His past self drew back and held out his hands,warding Daniel off. All the angels knew the risks of cleaving. Once joined,it was nearly impossible to free oneself from one's past self,to seperate the two lives that had been cloven together.But Daniel knew he'd been cloven in the past and had survived.So he had to do it. He was doing it to help Luce. He pressed his wings together and dove down at his past self,striking so hard he should have been crushed-if he hadn't been absorbed.He shuddered, and his past self shuddered,and Daniel clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth to withstand the strange,sharp sickness that flooded his body. He felt as if he were tumbling down a hill: reckless and unstoppable.No way back up until he hit the bottom. Then all at once,everything came to a stop. Daniel opened his eyes and could hear only his breathing.He felt tired but alert. The others were staring at him.He couldn't be sure whether they had any idea what had just happened. They all looked afraid to come near him,even to speak to him. He spread his wings and spun in a full circle,tilting his head toward the sky. "I choose my love for Lucinda," he called to Heaven and Earth,to the angels all around him and the ones who weren't there.To the soul of the one true thing he loved the most,wherever she was. "I now reaffirm my choice: I choose Lucinda over everything. And I will until the end.

Molly dove onto the floor with the dish towel, crawling awkwardly with her bustle bouncing above her. Bailey met her midway under the table. “It was only a wink,” he whispered. “No reason to drench me.” Molly tilted her head up, inches from his face. Why, oh why, did her heart have to beat like a hummingbird’s wings? Why couldn’t her anger prevent the fluttering in her stomach? Fluttering or no, his unsettling smile must be dispelled. Lifting the saturated dish towel over his head, she squeezed it, sending a cascade of dirty tea rolling down his face. “I have every reason to drench you,” she cooed and willed the butterflies to calm before she rose to help her shocked hostess.

Line 10: The fact that the inhabitants of the Netherworld are said to be clad in feather garments is perhaps due to the belief that after death, a person's soul turned into a spirit or a ghost, whose nature was wind-like, as well as bird-like. The Mesopotamians believed in the body (*pagru*) and the soul. the latter being referred to by two words: GIDIM = *et.emmu*, meaning "spirit of the dead," "ghost;" and AN.ZAG.GAR(.RA)/LIL2 = *zaqi_qu*/*ziqi_qu*, meaning "soul," "ghost," "phantom." Living beings (humans and animals) also had ZI (*napis\/tu*) "life, vigor, breath," which was associated with the throat or neck. As breath and coming from one's throat, ZI was understood as moving air, i.e., wind-like. ZI (*napis\/tu*) was the animating life force, which could be shortened or prolonged. For instance...Inanna grants "long life (zi-su\-ud-g~a/l) under him (=the king) in the palace. At one's death, when the soul/spirit released itself from the body, both *et.emmu* and *zaqi_qu*/*ziqi_qu* descended to the Netherworld, but when the body ceased to exist, so did the *et.emmu*, leaving only the *zaqi_gu*. Those souls that were denied access to the Netherworld for whatever reason, such as improper buriel or violent or premature death, roamed as harmful ghosts. Those souls who had attained peace were occasionally allowed to visit their families, to offer help or give instructions to their still living relatives. As it was only the *et.emmu* that was able to have influence on the affairs of the living relatives, special care was taken to preserve the remains of the familial dead. According to CAD [The Assyrian Dictionary of the University of Chicago] the Sumerian equivalent of *zaqi_qu*/*ziqi_qu* was li/l, which referred to a "phantom," "ghost," "haunting spirit" as in lu/-li/l-la/ [or] *lilu^* or in ki-sikil-li/l - la/ {or] *lili_tu*. the usual translation for the word li/l, however, is "wind," and li/l is equated with the word *s\/a_ru* (wind) in lexical lists. As the lexical lists equate wind (*s\/a_ru* and ghost (*zaqi_qu*) their association with each other cannot be unfounded. Moreover, *zaqi_qu* derives from the same root as the verb *za^qu*, "to blow," and the noun *zi_qu*, "breeze." According to J. Scurlock, *zaqi_qu* is a sexless, wind-like emanation, probably a bird-like phantom, able to fly through small apertures, and as such, became associated with dreaming, as it was able to leave the sleeping body. The wind-like appearance of the soul is also attested in the Gilgamesh Epic XII 83-84, where Enkidu is able to ascend from the Netherworld through a hole in the ground: "[Gilgamesh] opened a hole in the Netherworld, the *utukku* (ghost) of Enkidu came forthfrom the underworld as a *zaqi_qu." The soul's bird-like appearance is referred to in Tablet VII 183-184, where Enkidu visits the Netherworld in a dream. Prior to his descent, he is changed into a dove, and his hands are changed into wings. - State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts Volume VI: The Neo-Assyrian Myth of Istar's Descent and Resurrection {In this quote I haven't been able to copy some words exactly. I've put Assyrian words( normally in italics) between *asterisks*. The names of signs in Sumerian cuneiform (wedge-shaped writing) are normally in CAPITALS with a number slightly below the line after it if there's more than one reading for that sign. Assyriologists use marks above or below individual letters to aid pronunciation- I've put whatever I can do similar after the letter. E.g. *et.emmu" normally has the dot under the "t" to indicate a sibilant or buzzy sound, so it sounds something like "etzzemmoo." *zaqi_qu* normally has the line (macron) over the "i" to indicate a long vowel, so it sounds like "zaqeeqoo." *napis\/tu* normally has a small "v" over the s to make a sh sound, ="napishtu".}

All of us have felt like getting away, just packing our bags and saying, “I’ve had enough! I can’t take anymore! I’ve got to get away.” It’s a normal, natural reaction. But it is not a good solution to any problem. We usually take our problems with us. We can go on vacation and enjoy a short respite. But when we return, the battles and burdens are still there. In fact, sometimes when we try to run away, we only make the problems worse. Why does the Lord allow us to go through windy storms and tempests? They help us grow and mature. If we keep running away, we are like children who never grow up. No, we don’t need the wings of a dove to fly away. We need the wings of an eagle. Isaiah 40:31 says, “Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles.” The eagle faces the storm, spreads his great wings, and allows the wind to lift him above the storm. Don’t run away. Run to the Lord, and let Him lift you high above the storm.

2. Think before you speak. Have you ever heard the story of the fly that lived on a cow farm in Indiana? One day the fly was particularly hungry. As he was buzzing around looking for some food, he saw his favorite meal—a big, fresh cow patty. Excited by his discovery, the little fly dove in and feasted until he could feast no more. But when he tried to fly away, he realized there was a problem. He had eaten so much that he was too heavy for his wings to lift him off the ground. What’s a fly to do? Well, this enterprising little sucker spotted a broom leaning against the wall of the barn. He came up with a plan. The fly decided to climb to the top of the broom and jump off, assuming that once he was in the air with his wings spread, he’d be able to fly. The little hero waddled over to the broom and grunted his way to the tip of the handle. Once as high as he could go, he catapulted himself off and flapped his wings with all his might. But he was still too heavy to fly. He fell to the ground with a splat—and that was the end of Mr. Fly. The moral of the story? Don’t fly off the handle when you’re full of crap. In other words, think before you speak.

I soon perceived she was so much attached to her false system, had defended it so long, and had so much pride and false philosophy embarked for its support, that no direct demonstrations addressed. to the intellect would probably avail to hatter it down. But her system, had not saved her. That was her weak point. It had not led her to peace. It had not satisfied her heart,—a heart still wanting something, and roaming, like Noah's dove on weary wing, over a world of waters,—no rock to rest upon. So

Yehohshua knelt in the shallow water and began a quiet, earnest prayer. Yehuway listened to His son’s words. “Father, I am here beginning the walk to eternal life. Father, I have diligently maintained Your ways and laws in my heart. I have pursued You through the long nights and have nourished Your words in the light. Here I am, waiting for You to speak to me.” As the sun lowered behind the mountain, the shadows lengthened over Yehohshua and Yehohanan. An ethereal energy overtook Yehohshua’ body. The thickening lavender and yellow and red clouds above them suddenly spread open, revealing a patch of blue beyond the clouds’ dome. From the vacant reach Yehohshua stared at the rapid descent of the Ruach Ha Kodesh that took the shape of a dove. The fluttering white image fully covered Yehohshua. Within its opulent cove, bolts of lightning struck the ground. The intense, brief, flashes arced about Yehohshua, silhouetting his body. “You are My beloved son,” Yehuway’s voice transferred out from the multitude of lightning strikes, “with whom I am well pleased.” Yehohanan sank to his knees when he heard the words. The water flowed up to his chin. He lowered his eyes to the depths of the river, catching the sight of a few fish swimming by. Yehohshua’s garment appeared as the wings of an angel beneath the water. Yehohanan also prayed thanks to Yehuway. His long locks of hair unraveled and flowed out from behind him in a tranquil surrender to the events. From the experience, an invisible umbilical cord of purpose united the two men.