Blackbirds Quotes

In spring more mortal singers than belong
To any one place cover us with song.
Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may’st warble, eat and dwell.

I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.

I don’t mind him not talking so much, because you can hear his voice in your heart; the same way you can hear a song in your head even if there isn’t a radio playing; the same way you can hear those blackbirds flying when they’re not in the sky

The song of thrush and blackbird, joy that falls so gently on the ears to celebrate another day of life and living, flying free.

As to the garden, it seems to me its chief fruit is-blackbirds.

I am a closet birdwatcher. I can identify Southern African species, but it irks me I can barely tell a jay from a blackbird in the U.K.

Because of her, he had learned to look for the birds – the darting flight of wild canaries (yellow sun on yellow wings), the chesty preening of redbirds and bluebirds, the blackbird with the red-tipped wings like startling epaulets.

How sweet the harmonies of the afternoon!
The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze
His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon;
Rich breath of hayfields streams thro’ whispering trees;
And birds of morning trim their bustling wings,
And listen fondly–while the Blackbird sings.

We waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nightsour silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else’s confetti

I do not know which to prefer –
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

I’ve always found it difficult to start with a definite idea, but if I start with a pond that’s being drained because of a diesel fuel leak and a cow named Hortense and some blackbirds flying over and a woman in the distance waving, then I might get somewhere.

A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill’s shoulder.

The world has different owners at sunrise… Even your own garden does not belong to you. Rabbits and blackbirds have the lawns; a tortoise-shell cat who never appears in daytime patrols the brick walls, and a golden-tailed pheasant glints his way through the iris spears.

And let them pass, as they will too soon,
With the bean-flowers’ boon,
And the blackbird’s tune,
And May, and June!

We are nature. We are nature seeing nature. The red-winged blackbird flies in us.

Morning has broken
Like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken
Like the first bird.

Words like ‘unputdownable’ and ‘irresistible’ are simply not enough for Cat Winters’s In the Shadow of Blackbirds. Days after finishing this story, it remains the first thought I have in the morning, and the thing that haunts me until I sleep.

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.

I started reading contemporary fiction in college or right after college. It wasn’t as if I was steeped in experimental minimalism when I was twelve or something. I was reading The Witch of Blackbird Pond.

I love that sound,’ he mumbled into her hair. ‘Blackbirds at dawn.’ ‘I hate it. Makes me think I’ve done something I’ll regret.

Only nature has a right to grieve perpetually, for she only is innocent. Soon the ice will melt, and the blackbirds sing along the river which he frequented, as pleasantly as ever. The same everlasting serenity will appear in this face of God, and we will not be sorrowful, if he is not.

The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark’s is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.

the breed is more than the pasture. As you know, the cuckoo lays her eggs in any bird’s nest; it may be hatched among blackbirds or robins or thrushes, but it is always a cuckoo. … a man cannot deliver himself from his ancestors.

I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.