High sprits they had: gravity they flouted.

Flying alone! Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this.

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.

Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.

A way of using words to say things which could not possibly be said in any other way, things which in a sense do not exist till they are born … in poetry.

We who fly do so for the love of flying. We are alive in the air with this miracle that lies in our hands and beneath our feet.

Selfhood begins with a walking away, And love is proved in letting go.