Victor Hugo
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Sort by ratingBe as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.
How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.