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“The woods would be quiet if no bird sang but the one that sang best.”
― Henry van Dyke

“In a world where thrushes sing and willow trees are golden in the spring, boredom should have been included among the seven deadly sins.”
― Elizabeth Goudge, The Rosemary Tree

“Wherever there are birds, there is hope.”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“When sad she brings the thunder
And her tears, they bring the rain
When ill she feeds a poison
To us all to fell her pain
Her smiles they bring the sunshine
And the laughter and the wind
And the birds they go on singing
And the world is whole again.
"Smile, sweet Sunday," Wednesday whispered in her ear. "The birds need your love so they can lift their wings.”
― Alethea Kontis, Enchanted

“If you dissect a bird / to diagram the tongue, / you'll cut the chord / articulating song.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Collected Poems

“Birds teach us something very important: To whatever height you rise, you will finally come down to the ground!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“There shall come a day when Birds shall be free... :) and humans will see...”
― K. Hari Kumar

“Grandmother walked up over the bare granite and thought about birds in general. It seemed to her no other creature had the same dramatic capacity to underline and perfect events -- the shifts in the seasons and the weather, the changes that run through people themselves. p.33”
― Tove Jansson, The Summer Book

“Take this one to the bank: birds are hatched from eggs and are always egg-shaped. Maybe there's no escaping the shape that molds you, no getting around how you got started even if you do break out.”
― Tupelo Hassman, Girlchild

“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.”
― Katherine Catmull, Summer and Bird

“Feed the birds in winter; in return, they will feed your soul with the look of gratitude!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“If we learn to read the birds-and their behaviors and vocalizations-through them, we can read the world at large... if we replace collision with connection, learn to read these details, feel at home, relax, and are respectful--ultimately the birds will yield to us the first rite of passage: a close encounter with an animal otherwise wary of our presence.”
― Jon Young, What the Robin Knows: How Birds Reveal the Secrets of the Natural World

“She wasn't a cruel Bird. But her heart ached so badly for these sad, broken birds that, just as the Puppeteer had planned, she had begun to hate them. She hated them for making her feel so wretched, when she should be happiest. That happens sometimes.”
― Katherine Catmull, Summer and Bird

“Birdsong foamed in the hour-before-dawn garden.”
― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

“For the author as for God, standing outwith his creation, all times are one; all times are now. In mine own country, we accept as due and right �� as very meet, right, and our bounden duty �� the downs and their orchids and butterflies, the woods and coppices, ash, beech, oak, and field maple, rowan, wild cherry, holly, and hazel, bluebells in their season and willow, alder, and poplar in the wetter ground. We accept as proper and unremarkable the badger and the squirrel, the roe deer and the rabbit, the fox and the pheasant, as the companions of our walks and days. We remark with pleasure, yet take as granted, the hedgerow and the garden, the riot of snowdrops, primroses, and cowslips, the bright flash of kingfishers, the dart of swallows and the peaceful homeliness of house martins, the soft nocturnal glimmer of glow worm and the silent nocturnal swoop of owl.”
― G.M.W. Wemyss

“I think if we all gardened more, they and all of the other birds that fly in the air above and light in my garden below would be better off. I know that God values them no less than I do. So when I plant in spring I also hope to taste of God in fruit of summer sun and sight of feathered friends.”
― Vigen Guroian, Inheriting Paradise: Meditations on Gardening

“When a group of people sing together, we make up a chorus. When birds do, it's more like a whole symphony orchestra.”
― Laura Erickson, The Bird Watching Answer Book: Everything You Need to Know to Enjoy Birds in Your Backyard and Beyond

“In her dance, she controlled the bright paper birds with invisible wires and threads. She played the human: heavy, tied to earth. Her dances weren't pretty or delightful, but they were magical, [...] They called her a dancer and a puppeteer and an artist. They might have called her a witch, and not the good kind either.”
― Katherine Catmull, Summer and Bird

“She especially liked my bedside lamp, which had a five-sided porcelain shade. Unlit, the shade seemed like bumpy ivory. Lit, each panel came to life with the image of a bird: a blue jay, a cardinal, wrens, an oriole, and a dove. Kathleen turned it off and on again, several times. "How does it do that?"

"The panels are called lithophanes." I knew because I'd asked my father about the lamp, years ago. "The porcelain is carved and painted. You can see it if you look inside the shade."

"No," she said. "It's magic. I don't want to know how it's done.”
― Susan Hubbard, The Society of S

“قال لي إنه نشأ بقرية قرب جبل هناك، يسمونه جبل الطير، لأن طيوراً تأتي في كل عام، وتحط عنده، فتملأه الاجواء، ثم ترحل فجأة، بعدما يضحي طير بنفسه، بأن يدخل رأسه، في كوة بسفح الجبل، فيتلقف رأسه من داخلها شيء مجهول، فلا يفلته حتى يجف جسده، ويسقط ريشه، فتكون تلك اشارة لبقية الطير، كي يغطسوا في النيل، ويرحلوا في الليل”
― يوسف زيدان - عزازيل

“when that small Siberian bird fell out of the sky over Gray's River, not once but twice, he brought with him the sweetness of chance in any place, the certainty of wonder in all places. And if that's not grace, I don't know what it.”
― Robert Michael Pyle, Sky Time in Gray's River: Living for Keeps in a Forgotten Place

“As I stood on the lonely backroad, I'm sure I heard birds, kookaburras, laughing ...”
― Steven Herrick

“Mr. Jamrach led me through the lobby and into the menagerie. The first was a parrot room, a fearsome screaming place of mad round eyes, crimson breasts that beat against bars, wings that flapped against their neighbours, blood red, royal blue, gypsy yellow, grass green. The birds were crammed along perches. Macaws hung upside down here and there, batting their white eyes, and small green parrots flittered above our heads in drifts. A hot of cockatoos looked down from on high over the shrill madness, high crested, creamy breasted. The screeching was like laughter in hell.”
― Carol Birch, Jamrach's Menagerie

“I saw a pair of great tits some days ago. (Massingham Major, you are a dirty-minded boy, and if you snigger again, you will do five hundred lines.) The squeaking-wheel song of Parus major is always gladsome, a precursor to interesting scenes at the bird table. On this occasion, however, what hearing and seeing the two greenery-yallery Paridæ first called up in me was a memory from last year’s early Springtide: an ærial near-collision. A very young squirrel �� native red, I am rejoiced to say �� was leaping from one tree trunk to another, adjacent, just as a great tit was exploding outwards in flight from the second tree. You never saw a more indignant bird or a more startled squirrel in your life.”
― G.M.W. Wemyss

“In East Sussex, let us say, an old farm sleeps in sun-dapple, its oast-house with its cowls echoing the distant steeple of SS Andrew and Mary, Fletching, where de Montfort had prayed and Gibbon now sleeps out a sceptic’s eternity. The Sussex Weald is quiet now, its bows and bowmen that did affright the air at Agincourt long dust. A Chalk Hill Blue spreads peaceable wings upon the hedge. Easter is long sped, yet yellow and lavender yet ornament the land, in betony and dyer’s greenweed and mallows. An inquisitive whitethroat, rejoicing in man’s long opening of the Wealden country, trills jauntily from atop a wall.”
― G.M.W. Wemyss

“Or awa�� upon Islay, in January, the wind was honed to a cutting edge across the queer flatness of Loch Gorm and the strand and fields ’round. The roe deer had taken shelter in good time and the brown trout had sought deeper waters. An auld ram alone huddled against the wind, that had swept clear the skies even of eagle, windcuffer, and goose. The scent of saltwater rode the wind over the freshwater loch, and the dry field-grasses rattled, and there was the memory of peat upon the air: a whisky wind in Islay. The River Leòig was forced back upon itself as the wind whipped the loch to whitecaps; only the cairn and the Standing Stones stood unyielding in the blast as of old.”
― G.M.W. Wemyss