Birds Quotes (page 9)
And it's a wonderful thing to be a boy, to go roaming where grown-ups can't catch you, and to chase rats and kill birds and shy stones and cheek carters and shout dirty words. It's a kind of a strong, rank feeling, a feeling of knowing everything and fearing nothing, and it's all bound up with breaking rules and killing things.
George Orwell
Now for St. Francis nothing was ever in the background. We might say that his mind had no background, except perhaps that divine darkness out of which the divine love had called up every colored creature one by one. He saw everything as dramatic, distinct from its setting, not all of a piece like a picture but in action like a play. A bird went by him like an arrow; something with a story and a purpose, though it was a purpose of life and not a purpose of death. A bush could stop him like a...
Gilbert K. Chesterton
the world-view of the Party imposed itselfmost successfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violationsof reality, because they never fully grasped the enormityof what was demanded of them, and were not sufficientlyinterested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simplyswallowed everything, and what they swallowed did themno harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain...
George Orwell
December stillness, teach me through your trees. That loom along the west, one with the land, The veiled evangel of your mysteries. While nightfall, sad and spacious, on the down. Deepens, and dusk embues me where I stand, With grave diminishings of green and brown, Speak, roofless Nature, your instinctive words; And let me learn your secret from the sky, Following a flock of steadfast-journeying birds. In lone remote migration beating by. December stillness, crossed by twilight roads, Teach...
Siegfried Sassoon
If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigiland its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.
Rabindranath Tagore