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Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
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O fret not after knowledge — I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge — I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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O honey-throated warbler of the grove! That in the glooming woodland art so proud Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud, Thou dost not own a note we do not love.
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O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, * * * * * Portend success in love.
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Of all types of birds, birds of prey have always fascinated people.
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One swallow does not make a summer.
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Otherwise we might have birds all over the place.
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Our avian brothers are back to roost on the first leg of their annual sojourn south. Why them and not us? Maybe it’s because we humans are meant to be rooted in one spot.
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Our emphasis is, you have to get it at the source, and the source is birds.
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Our society nowadays is all about killing two birds with one stone.
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Over increasingly large areas of the United States, spring now comes unheralded by the return of the birds, and the early mornings are strangely silent where once they were filled with the beauty of bird-song.
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Pardon the pun, but you really do get a bird’s eye view from up there.
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Poor indeed is the garden in which birds find no homes.- Abram L. Urban
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Proclaim not all thou knowest, all thou owest, all thou hast, nor all thou canst.
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Seagulls… slim yachts of the element.
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See the enfranchised bird, who wildly springs, With a keen sparkle in his glowing eye And a strong effort in his quivering wings, Up to the blue vault of the happy sky.
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She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.
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Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ’em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.
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Sir, we are a nest of singing birds.
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‘Six months before he died, my grand-father came to Australia to try to explain to me that he was dying. I was a young kid, very much into myself at the time. I was busking on the streets just to make enough money to pay my rent, There was this Japanese restaurant I’d always wanted to eat at but couldn’t afford, so I suggested we go there.’ It was an unfortunate choice. In Weans’ weakened condition, the smell of the rice and soya sauce brought back memories of the Second World War. ‘We couldn’t have the talk he wanted to,’ says Crowe. ‘The day he died, I was in the kitchen of a flat in Woollarah, (an eastern suburb of Sydney). ‘Suddenly a kookaburra bird flew in the window. It just looked at me. I knew my grandfather had died. I phoned home and my mother confirmed it. ‘I insisted the bird was my grandfather’s spirit, but my mom would have nothing of it.’ One day last year, Crowe had a dream in which he was holding his mother and she was crying. He phoned home immediately. ‘My mother said a woman who had worked closely with my grandfather had come to visit and, without prompting, had told her that on the day my grandfather died a bird had visited her as well. ‘Learning this had reduced my mother to tears.’ Crowe says he believes that ‘with all this talk of angels, maybe they are just birds sent to us by those who have crossed over.’ Tuesday, March 14, 2000
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