A Quote by William Shakespeare
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
Related Quotes
No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
Let us see how high we can fly before the sun melts the wax in our wings.
All those golden autumn days the sky was full of wings. Wings beating low over the blue water of Silver Lake, wings beating high in the blue air far above it . . . bearing them all away to the green fields in the South.
The little and the great are joined in one By God's great force. The wondrous golden sun Is linked unto the glow-worm's tiny spark; The eagle soars to heaven in his flight; And in those realms of space, all bathed in light, Soar none except the eagle and the lark.
She soars on her own wings.
Each night the sun sank right in our eyes along the sea, making an undulating glittering pathway, a golden track charted on the surface of the ocean which our ship followed unswervingly until the sun dipped below the edge of the horizon, and the pathway ran ahead of us faster than we could steam and slipped over the edge of the skyline - as if the sun had been a golden ball and had wound up its thread of gold too quickly for us to follow.
Faith and Reason are like two wings of the human spirit by which is soars to the truth.
Fear is the fire that melts Icarian wings.
Purity and simplicity are the two wings with which man soars above the earth and all temporary nature.
Narcissism really spreads its wings and soars on twitter. It's like watching a dragon hatch and learn to fly.
Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields, See how these names are fêted in the waving grass And by the streamers of the white cloud And whispers of the wind in the listening sky. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre. Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
At this sunset hour, the canyon walls are indescribably beautiful and I fear the magic of photography can never record what I see now. The tall spires near the canyon's top and the walls of the canyon up there look as if God had reached out and swiped a brush of golden paint across them, gilding these rocks in the bright glow of the setting sun.
Come near me and I'll rip your wings off and beat you with them.
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?
The same sun that melts butter hardens clay.
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