Swords and Plowshares/Wings
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THE wings of the soul are made of love. There is no other plumage so soft and beautiful.
There are no other pinions so sinewy and strong.
They alone soar dauntlessly sunward.
They sweep from horizon to horizon.
They hover and brood over all the rounded worlds.
They lift when all else is dragging down.
They are buoyant when all else is sinking.
Try your wings.
Spread them, trust yourself to them, exercise them often, hold them ever in readiness.
They refresh weariness, bear up despondency, and make joy deeper and unashamed.
But most of all in the hour of death you will need them, for they alone can waft you over the dark abyss.
There are no other pinions so sinewy and strong.
They alone soar dauntlessly sunward.
They sweep from horizon to horizon.
They hover and brood over all the rounded worlds.
They lift when all else is dragging down.
They are buoyant when all else is sinking.
Try your wings.
Spread them, trust yourself to them, exercise them often, hold them ever in readiness.
They refresh weariness, bear up despondency, and make joy deeper and unashamed.
But most of all in the hour of death you will need them, for they alone can waft you over the dark abyss.