text: if you could chose to turn invisible at will, or the ability to fly, what would you choose?   no question about it, i would choose flying. can you imagine the feeling you would get soaring at will?!    i caught this morning morning's minion, king-  dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn falcon, in his     riding of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding high there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing in his ecstasy! then off, off forth on a swing, as a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and   the gliding rebuffed the big wind. my heart in hiding stirred for a bird, — the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!  brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here buckle! and the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion times told lovelier, more dangerous. o my chevalier! no wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.                                                              -hopkins, 'the windhover'   invisibility? cool for awhile i suppose, but nothing in comparison (i think!) to the 'hurl and the gliding' of flight. let's face it, how many of us haven't had dreams about flying?    i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.	 i said, “wait on, wait on, while i ride below!	       i shall start a heron soon	       in the marsh beneath the moon—	 a strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,	                   rising and crying	       wordless, wondrous things;	 the secret of the stars, of the world’s heart-strings,	       the answer to their woe.	 then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!”	               my wild soul waited on as falcons hover.	     i beat the reedy fens as i trampled past.	       i heard the mournful loon	       in the marsh beneath the moon.	 and then—with feathery thunder—the bird of my desire	                   broke from the cover	       flashing silver fire.	     high up among the stars i saw his pinions spire.	       the pale clouds gazed aghast	 as my falcon stoopt upon him, and gript and held him fast.	           my soul dropt through the air—with heavenly plunder?—	 gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew?	       nay! but a piteous freight,	       a dark and heavy weight	 despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled,—	                   all of the wonder	       gone that ever filled	 its guise with glory. oh, bird that i have killed,	       how brilliantly you flew	 across my rapturous vision when first i dreamed of you!	               yet i fling my soul on high with new endeavor,	     and i ride the world below with a joyful mind.	       i shall start a heron soon	       in the marsh beneath the moon—	 a wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!	                   i beat forever	       the fens and the sedges.	     the pledge is still the same—for all disastrous pledges,	           all hopes resigned!	 my soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find.                                    -william rose benét, 'the falconer of god'