A heart without dreams is like a bird without feathers.
Life is short. It can come and go like a feather in the wind.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
I am a feather for each wind that blows
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
Lean forward into your life... catch the best bits and the finest wind. Just tip your feathers in flight a wee bit and see how dramatically that small lean can change your life.
I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright.
A willing heart adds feather to the heel.
If feathers don't ruffle, nothing flies.
A bird painted not with beauty but with all the dirt and wounds collected in a long hard life, in battle, in love, with torn feathers and a busted leg and a chipped beak and one of its eyes half closed; and yet a bird of deeper loveliness for all of that.
It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.
May the hinges of friendship never rust, nor the wings of love lose a feather.
Just remember that Dumbo didn't need the feather; the magic was in him.
As I watch, the sky fills with clouds of snow feathers from every kind of bird there ever was and even some that only exist in the imagination, like the bluebirds that fly over the rainbow.
Words and feathers the wind carries away.
What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
This is how magic is done. By hurling yourself into the abyss and discovering its a feather bed.
Love seems to beautify and inspire all nature. It raises the earthly caterpillar into the ethereal butterfly, it paints the feathers in spring, it lights the glowworm's lamp, it wakens the song of birds, and inspires the poet's lay. Even inanimate Nature seems to feel the spell, and flowers glow with the richest colours.
Hope is a thing with feathers
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.
And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches; little space they stop; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
The soul, light as a feather, fluid as water, innocent as a child, responds to every movement of grace like a floating balloon.
Duty is heavy as a mountain, death is light as a feather.
Bows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air and feather canyons everywhere, I've looked at clouds that way.
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