Selfhood begins with a walking away, And love is proved in letting go.
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.
High sprits they had: gravity they flouted.
There's a kind of release And a kind of torment in every goodbye for every man.
Flying alone! Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this.
Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.