The poetic myths are dead; and the poetic image, which is the myth of the individual, reigns in their stead.

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.

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.

The poetic myths are dead; and the poetic image, which is the myth of the individual, reigns in their stead.

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

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

High sprits they had: gravity they flouted.