Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Song Birds. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Song Birds Quotes And Sayings by 88 Authors including Suzanne Collins,James Patterson,Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,Laura Erickson,Maya Angelou for you to enjoy and share.
Birds are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their young.
Birds coming home to roost.
Birds that cannot fly high into the sky rejoice exceedingly and sing sweet melodies when they get to the top of the tallest tree on the highest mountain!
When a group of people sing together, we make up a chorus. When birds do, it's more like a whole symphony orchestra.
All the strong black birds of promise who defy the odds and gods and sing their sings
Mockingbirds don't do one thing except make music for us to enjoy.
Let the bird sing without deciphering the song.
I walk where once the grass was green And mourn the lark that sings no more What bird could sing whose eyes have seen Broken blossoms on the field of war?
See the wild birds on the wing,
Hear the bells that sweetly ring,
When you feel like singin', sing
Keep a-goin'!
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
But when the day departs he sings of love,
His own wild song beneath the listening moon.
To one who loves birds, morning always wakes up singing.
What kind of idiot bird sings in the middle of the night?... I wish it'd shut up and let me sleep! - Pirra
Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.
Each morning when I arrive, the doves know me; their song rises and falls with pleasure and acceptance. It is always there, a river of sound.
Colonial American and Australian schoolchildren once memorized poems about British skylarks while the blue jays or cockatoos (according to continent) squawked outside, utterly ignored. The dominant culture has a way of becoming more real than the stuff at hand.
The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.
Don't you think it's a small mystery that birds can twitter so loudly that they can hear each other's song from several miles away? Those tiny bundles are like living flutes, playing non-stop on themselves.
It's probable that in the artistic hierarchy birds are the greatest musicians existing on our planet.
Whoever says that all music is prohibited, let him also claim that the songs of birds are prohibited.
Few forms of life are so engaging as birds.
Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Along the waves dost thou fly? Oh! rather, bird, with me Through this fair land rejoice!
Long before the stars died the birds began to sing - cool rippling doves, loud cheery starlings, the long lilting trills of warblers and thrushes.
A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.
A bird in hand is a certainty. But a bird in the bush may sing.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
Birds are everywhere in our literature, a part, it seems, of our collective poetic imagination. If writing a beautiful line of poetry fills a poet's heart with joy, imagine how that same poet's soul must take flight at the sight of swallows soaring through the evening sky!
All birds and men are sure to die but songs may live forever.
Birds sing on a bare bough; O, believer, canst not thou?
Never your bird, never finch
never graceful feathered thing.
Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.
And the redwinged blackbirds sing in the budding greengage plumtree.
Birds were created to record everything. They were not designed just to be beautiful jewels in the sky, but to serve as the eyes of heaven.
And hear the pleasant cockoo, loud and long - The simple bird that thinks two notes a song.
Hark, how the cheerful birds do chaunt their lays, and carol of love's praise.
Don't the wounded bird still sing?
Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song.
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.
In Georgia where children work day and night in the cotton mills they have just passed a bill to protect song birds. What about the little children from whom all song is gone?
Species can be recognized by their morphological characteristics and songs.
What is the singing of birds, or any natural sound, compared with the voice of one we love.
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
You can cage the songbird, but you can't make her sing. And you can trap the free bird, but you'll have to clip her wings.
Those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art.
In the deepest night of trouble and sorrow God gives us so much to be thankful for that we need never cease our singing. With all our wisdom and foresight we can take a lesson in gladness and gratitude from the happy bird that sings all night, as if the day were not long enough to tell its joy.
The bird Imagination, That flies so far, that dies so soon; Her wings are colored like the sun, Her breast is colored like the moon.
Here and there robins sang
The birds, on the other hand, were going crazy. They filled the air with chirps and trills and songs. It was probably sparrow for Holy shit, what's going on, we're all gonna die, but it sounded pretty.
Use what talents you possess; the woods would be very quiet if only those birds sing there that sang best.
I walk through the seasons and always the birds
are singing and screaming and keening for love
When you're with me it seems so absurd
that I should be jealous of the jay and the dove.
Who's to know what makes a bird wake up and decide to change its song? It was written that our world would change and it changed.
The bird music sank into her, like a song you used to know but forgot long ago. You hear a piano play it some day, and for a minute you feel a happy pain, but you don't know why. Bird felt like that.
The thousands small birds of January in their smooth soaring cloud finding the trees.
A bird doesn't sing because he has an answer-he sings because he has a song.
Like humans, birds mourn the loss of fledglings and mates. There are a thousand variant weeping songs to sing. I had to sign mine and get on with it. That is what I did
Two birds fly past. They are needed somewhere.
What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
Owls hoot in B flat, cuckoos in D, but the water ousel sings in the voice of the stream. She builds her nest back of the waterfalls so the water is a lullaby to the little ones. Must be where they learn it.
Again the blackbirds sings; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.
The birds are the saints, who fly to heaven on the wings of contemplation, who are so removed from the world that they have no business on earth. They do not labour, but by contemplation alone they already live in heaven.
One by one and then together the birds chanted, warbled, whistled, and cooed, like a rare desert plant bursting into life after the rain.
The gene that enables birds to learn songs can become cancer-causing. There is no normal physiological process that can't be bastardized by the disease.
Apparently there's this kind of songbird that thinks it dies every time the sun goes down. In the morning, when it wakes up, it's totally shocked to still be alive - so it sings this really beautiful song.
Birdsong brings relief to my longing. I am just as ecstatic as they are, but with nothing to say.
A bird half wakened in the lunar noon
Sang halfway through its little inborn tune.
The Dove
Fly your flight my dear dove
Sing your song, make it reach the ocean
I want my freedom
I want to live in peace
I want to sing your song
To have your wings
To be able to fly
I want my destiny to leave the path that it is taking now.
My sparrow, she flickers and wakes and sings and sings.
Birds are the eyes of Heaven.
Birds are the most accomplished aeronauts the world has ever seen. They fly high and low, at great speed, and very slowly. And always with extraordinary precision and control.
When the world becomes peaceful for the birds, the birds will sing a harmonious chorale
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.
Blackbirds are the cellos of the deep farms.
The brassy wood-pigeons Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun Rises upon a world well-tried and old.
Chestnut brown canary, ruby throated sparrow, sing a song, don't be long, thrill me to the marrow.
fantastic shadows of birds
Birds sing even when the world is filled with sadness. I don't know why people can't do the same thing.
Birds have done great jobs for the progression of humanity: They kept alive our love for freedom and they insistently motivated us to reach the skies, to reach the stars!
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill, of things unknown, but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.
A bird sings, a child prattles, but it is the same hymn; hymn indistinct, inarticulate, but full of profound meaning.
Verse is the natural speech of men, as singing is of birds'
The Week's Survey, 18 June 1904
The birds, the poets of the animal creation - what though they never get beyond the lyrical! - awoke to utter their own joy, and awake like joy in others of God's children.
Gentle day's flower - The hummingbird competes With the stillness of the air.
Birding to Change the World,
A lost bird appeared in the court and was half an hour jumping around between the spikenard. It sang a progressive note, rising an octave at a time, until it became so acute that it was necessary to imagine it.
Birds are the most popular group in the animal kingdom. We feed them and tame them and think we know them. And yet they inhabit a world which is really rather mysterious.
Listen, sweet Dove, unto my song, And spread thy golden wings in me; Hatching my tender heart so long, Till it get wing, and flie away with Thee.
Only the tame birds have a longing. The wild ones fly
A bird, music and food -desert island items
My life is filled with buckets of tears; thousands of people shouting in my ears; the humming and chirping of hundreds of Himalayan birds, which are irresistible to hear.
The birds and I share a natural history. It is a matter of rootedness, of living inside a place for so long that the mind and imagination fuse.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.
On the fences the shiny blackbirds with red epaulets clicked their dry call. The meadowlarks sang like water, and the wild doves, concealed among the bursting leaves of the oaks, made a sound of restrained grieving.
The cuckoos remain silent for a long time (for several seasons) until they are able to sing sweetly (in the Spring) so as to give joy to all.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody: Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
When eagles are silent, parrots begin to chatter.
The garrulous parrot
Please stay with your mouth shut.
The thrush in the willow grove
Has promised to sing a song for me
Be a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.