In order to fly, all one must to do is simply miss the ground.


Like a hard candy with surprise center

          This living hand, now warm and capable
          Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
          And in the icy silence of the tomb,
          So haunt thy days and chilt thy dreaming nights
          That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
          So in my veins red life might stream again,
          And thou be conscience-calm'd -- see here it is --
          I hold it towards you.
                                                           John Keats

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