Quotes about Birds

Each stone, each bend cries welcome to him. He identifies with the mountains and the streams, he sees something of his own soul in the plants and the animals and the birds of the field.

Let's kneel down
through all the worlds of the body
like lovers.  I know
I am a tree and full of life
and I know you, you
are the flying one and will leave.
But can't we swallow the sweetness
and can't you sing in my arms
and sleep in the human light
of the sun and moon I have been
drinking alone.

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. Wings of geese, of brant, of ducks and pelicans and cranes and heron and swans and gulls, bearing them all away to green fields in the South.

God loved the birds and invented the trees, men loved the birds and invented cages

God loved the birds and invented trees. Man loved the birds and invented cages.

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.

The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

Cock-crow at Christmas Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

The Art of Happiness There was never a time when so much official effort was being expended to produce happiness, and probably never a time when so little attention was paid by the individual to creating and personal qualities that make for it. What one misses most today is the evidence of widespread personal determination to develop a character that will, in itself, given any reasonable odds, make for happiness. Our whole emphasis is on the reform of living conditions, of increased wages, of controls on the economic structure-the government approach-and so little on man improving himself. The ingredients of happiness are so simple that they can be counted on one hand. Happiness comes from within, and rests most securely on simple goodness and clear conscience. Religion may not be essential to it, but no one ins known to have gained it without a philosophy resting on ethical principles. Selfishness is its enemy; to make another happy is to be happy one's self. It is quiet, seldom found for long in crowds, most easily won in moments of solitude and reflection. It cannot be bought; indeed, money has very little to do with it. No one is happy unless he is reasonably well satisfied with himself, so that the quest for tranquility must of necessity begin with self-examination. We shall not often be content with what we discover in this scrutiny. There is much to do, and so little done. Upon this searching self-analysis, however, depends the discovery of those qualities that make each man unique, and whose development alone can bring satisfaction. Of all those who have tried, down the ages, to outline a program for happiness, few have succeeded so well as William Henry Channing, chaplain of the House of Representatives in the middle of the last century: "To live content with small means; so seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy . . . to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to the stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never; in a word to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common." It will be noted that no government can do this for you; you must do it for yourself.

Morning is the best of all times in the garden. The sun is not yet hot. Sweet vapors rise from the earth. Night dew clings to the soil and makes plants glisten. Birds call to one another. Bees are already at work.

I continue to handpick the beetles, mosquitoes feast on me, birds eat the mosquitoes, something else eats the birds, and so on up and down the biotic pyramid.

To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unaging intellect.

I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.

No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.

Sonnet: To a Child Sweet is your antique body, not yet young; Beauty withheld from youth that looks for youth; Fair only for your father. Dear among Masters in art. To all men else uncouth; Save me, who know your smile comes very old, Learnt of the happy dead that laughed with gods; For earlier suns than ours have lent you gold; Sly fauns and trees have given you jigs and nods. But soon your heart, hot-beating like a bird's, Shall slow down. Youth shall lop your hair; And you must learn wry meanings in our words. Your smile shall dull, because too keen aware; And when for hopes your hand shall be uncurled, Your eyes shall close, being open to the world.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause. VII On thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? VIII I know noble accents And lucid, escapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know. IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds. XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

A lifelong intimacy with animals has got me out of the common notion that they are automata with a slight infusion of intelligence in their composition. The mind in beast and bird, as in man, is the main thing.

Many things love to come and live off your plants, including bacteria, bugs, birds, and bunnies. If you don't control them, entire crops can be ruined. The result of your careful cultivation, in your garden and in your life, can be lost to predators in a short time. . . . Take a look at your life, what toxic relationships, substances and emotions are feeding on your energy and taking away from what you have to give to others. Eliminate them.

Here may I live what life I please, Married and buried out of sight, - Married to pleasure and buried to pain, - Hidden away amongst scenes like these, Under the fans of the chestnut trees; Living my child-life over again, With the further hope of a fallen delight, Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.

Be like a bird That pausing in her flight Awhile on boughs to light, Feels them give way Beneath her and yet sings, Knowing that she hath wings.

The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Do not stand on my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in the circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.

An estimated 63 million people are feeding birds in their yards. Research by Metz Farms Wildlife Feeding Specialists of Grand Rapids, Michigan, also shows that $2.3 billion is spent on birdseed each year.

Boys flying kites, draw in their white winged birds, But you can't do that when you're flying words. Careful with fire is good advice we know, But careful with words is ten times doubly so. Thoughts unexpressed my sometimes fall back dead, But God Himself can't kill them once they're said.

Trees enrich our lives throughout the year. They reassure us with the rustle of their leaves, give us shade to soothe our overheated bodies and they bring delight to us when we watch birds nest in their boughs. However, it is only during the fall that they wave flamboyant foliage that seems to demand our attention.

Togetherness Do not stand at my grave and weep.  I'm not there, I do not sleep.   I'm a thousand winds that blow.   I'm the diamond glint on snow.   I'm sunlight on ripened grain.  I'm the gentle rain.   When you awaken in the morning hush,  I'm the swift uplifting rush.   Of quiet birds in circled flight.  I'm the soft stars that shine in the night.  Do not stand at my grave and cry.  I'm not there. I did not die. 

Use the talents you possess for the woods would be a very silent place if no birds sang except for the best.