欧宝娱乐

“This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.”
― Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan

“I think I'm a tiny bit like Harry 'cos I'd like to have an owl. Yeah, that's the tiny bit, actually.”
― Daniel Radcliffe

“Favorite Quotations.
I speak my mind because it hurts to bite my tongue.
The worth of a book is measured by what you carry away from it.
It's not over till it's over.
Imagination is everything.
All life is an experiment.
What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.”
― Pat Frayne, Tales of Topaz the Conjure Cat: Part I Topaz and the Evil Wizard & Part II Topaz and the Plum-Gista Stone

“Like some winter animal the moon licks the salt of your hand,
Yet still your hair foams violet as a lilac tree
From which a small wood-owl calls.”
― Johannes Bobrowski

“The owl,鈥� he was saying, 鈥渋s one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?”
― M.J. Rose, Seduction

“Owl," said Rabbit shortly, "you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest--and when I say thinking I mean thinking--you and I must do it.”
― A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

“It is just my imagination that flies,
While she is wrapped up in her bedsheets
like a nest.”
― Kiera Woodhull, Chaos of the Mind

“Everything here at St. Aggie's is upside down and inside out. It's our job not to get moon blinked and to stand right side up in an upside down world. If we don't do that we'll never be able to escape. We'll never be able to think. And thinking is the only way we'll be able to plan an escape."
-Gylfie”
― Kathryn Lasky, The Capture

“If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing. A writer who appreciates the seriousness of writing so little that he is anxious to make people see he is formally educated, cultured or well-bred is merely a popinjay. And this too remember; a serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.”
― Ernest Hemingway

“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.”
― Karen Joy Fowler, Sarah Canary

“I have lived in this tree, in this same hollow," the owl said, "for more years than anyone can remember. But now, when the wind blows hard in winter and rocks the forest, I sit here in the dark, and from deep down in the bole, near the roots, I hear a new sound. It is the sound of strands of wood creaking in the cold and snapping one by one. The limbs are falling; the tree is old, and it is dying. Yet I cannot bring myself, after so many years, to leave, to find a new home and move into it, perhaps to fight for it. I, too, have grown old. One of these days, one of these years, the tree will fall, and when it does, if I am still alive, I will fall with it.”
― Robert C. O'Brien, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH

“The inauspiciousness of the owl is nothing but the inauspiciousness of the man who thinks that owl is inauspicious!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“All primitive people are frightened of owls,' said Harley. 'The villagers here are scared to death of the gufo. Birds of ill omen. If they see one, they think they'll die. But they never do. See one, I mean, of course,' he added with a laugh.”
― Francis Brett Young, Cold Harbour

“In their previous lives, poets were bats, and thinkers were owls.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, Song of a Nature Lover

“the more i learn about the world, the bigger it seems and the smaller i feel..i can't decide if learning things makes me happy or if knowing things things makes me happy. either way, i would be sad if i knew everything and i would be sad if i knew nothing.”
― Jomny Sun, Everyone's a Aliebn When Ur a Aliebn Too

“who am i? i don't really know. everybody calls me wise, and i have tried to learn very much about the world, but i don't feel very wise. and i know that owls are supposed to be wise. so then i don't feel owly enough to be an owl.”
― Jomny Sun, Everyone's a Aliebn When Ur a Aliebn Too

“Every night the owl with his wild monkey-face calls through the black branches, and the mice freeze and the rabbits shiver in the snowy fields鈥� and then there is the long, deep trough of silence when he stops singing, and steps into the air.”
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume One

“When his mother first came back to earth she鈥檇 been a sparrow; Waldo had fed her鈥攕tale bits of scavenged cereal, through the wire and bars on his window.
Now she was an owl.”
― Cynthia Robinson, Birds of Wonder

“Wesley was always outraged when he woke himself up with a screech in his sleep, and he blamed me. He would whip around to face me with an intense librarian鈥檚 stare as if I had broken a cardinal rule.”
― Stacey O'Brien, Wesley the Owl: The Remarkable Love Story of an Owl and His Girl

“It was a lot like working at Hogwarts, except that, instead of receiving letters from our owls, we would find coughed-up owl pellets in our coffee mugs.”
― Stacey O'Brien, Wesley the Owl: The Remarkable Love Story of an Owl and His Girl

“When the dancing breeze
around the night
guarding the hooting owl鈥檚 emotion,
I treasure my longing
in the melted silence
of our spiritual devotion
forever glared (even in the dark)
Only for you

From the poem- Only for You”
― Munia Khan, To Evince the Blue

“With the prominent hood
The pygmy owl screeched loudly,
鈥淣ot yours,
Night is mine”
― Ahila, I Named The Village

“The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.”
― Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussycat

“The moon has no master," said the owl. "The moon is its own king."
"Or queen," said the girl.
The moon rose higher.”
― Kate DiCamillo, The Puppets of Spelhorst

“Through the darkness, the call of the owl invites us to reflect, to meditate, in that suspended moment where time seems to stop.”
― David Passarelli, Mountain poems: Musings on stone, forest, and snow

“One Day Eight Years Ago - Poem by Jibanananda Das


It was heard: to the post-mortem cell
he had been taken;
last night鈥攊n the darkness of Falgoon-night
When the five-night-old moon went down鈥�
he was longing for death.

His wife lay beside鈥攖he child therewith;
hope and love abundant__in the moonlight鈥攚hat ghost
did he see? Why his sleep broke?
Or having no sleep at all since long鈥攈e now has fallen asleep
in the post-mortem cell.

Is this the sleep he鈥檇 longed for!
Like a plagued rat, mouth filled with crimson froth
now asleep in the nook of darkness;
And will not ever awake anymore.

鈥楴ever again will wake up,
never again will bear
the endless鈥攅ndless burden
of painful waking鈥斺€�
It was told to him
when the moon sank down鈥攊n the strange darkness
by a silence like the neck of a camel that might have shown up
at his window side.

Nevertheless, the owl stays wide awake;
The rotten still frog begs two more moments
in the hope for another dawn in conceivable warmth.
We feel in the deep tracelessness of flocking darkness
The unforgiving enmity of the mosquito-net all around;
The mosquito loves the stream of life
awake in its monastery of darkness.

From sitting in blood and filth, flies fly back into the sun;
How often we watched moths and flies hovering
in the waves of golden sun.
The close-knit sky, as if鈥攁s it were, some scattered
lives, possessed their hearts;
The wavering dragonflies in the grasp of wanton kids
Fought for life;
As the moon went down, in the impending gloom
With a noose in hand you approached the aswattha,
alone, by yourself,
For you鈥檇 learnt
a human would ne鈥檈r live the life of a locust or a robin
The branch of aswattha
Had it not raged in protest? And the flock of fireflies
Hadn鈥檛 they come and mingled with
the comely bunch of daffodils?
Hadn鈥檛 the senile blind owl come over
and said: 鈥榯he age-old moon seems to have been washed away
by the surging waters?
Splendid that!
Let鈥檚 catch now rats and mouse! 鈥�
Hadn鈥檛 the owl hooted out this cherished affair?
Taste of life鈥攖he fragrance of golden corn of winter evening鈥�
seemed intolerable to you; 鈥�
Content now in the morgue
In the morgue鈥攕ultry
with the bloodied mouth of a battered rat!

Listen
yet, tale of this dead; 鈥�
Was not refused by the girl of love,
Didn鈥檛 miss any joy of conjugal life,
the bride went ahead of time
and let him know
honey and the honey of reflection;
His life ne鈥檈r shivered in demeaning hunger
or painful cold;
So
now in the morgue
he lies flat on the dissection table.

Know鈥擨 know
woman鈥檚 heart鈥攍ove鈥攐ffspring鈥攈ome鈥攏ot all
there is to things;
Wealth, achievement, affluence apart
there is some other baffling surprise
that whirls in our veins;
It tires and tires,
and tires us out;
but there is no tiring
in the post mortem cell
and so,
there he rests, in the post mortem cell
flat on the dissection table.

Still I see the age-old owl, ah,
Nightly sat on the aswattha bough
Winks and echoes: 鈥楾he olden moon seems
to be carried away by the flooding waters?
That鈥檚 splendid!
Let鈥檚 catch now rats and mouse鈥斺€�

Hi, granny dear, splendid even today?
Let me age like you鈥攁nd see off
the olden moon in the whirlpool at the Kalidaha;
Then the two of us will desert life鈥檚 abundant reserve.”
― Jibanananda Das, Selected Poems

“A sparrow will endure incessant questioning when he lives in an owlery.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“The last footfall dies into silence. The stillness tingles with the aftermath of noise. All around stand the new cornstacks, unfamiliar shadows, ramparts thrown up suddenly round the yard. An owl detaches itself silently from the darkness of a beam, swoops down into the moonlight and away, now white against a shadow, now black against the moon. A mouse scuttles somewhere in the straw. The gaunt shape of a binder stands in the corner, angular as a skeleton under its cloth. Its work is over until next year.”
― Adrian Bell, Corduroy

“Here on the walkway lie distant dreams of orange in October, with its outer mystery and inner disfigurement. A shrill cry from a little one pierces the blackness, as the moon is shrouded in a solemn veil.
鈥淚n our bags place a treat. In our hearts some bittersweet.鈥�
And I, 鈥淭ake what you will of these melting dreams; sweet but for a moment.鈥�
As the little soldiers walk away, I turn and go to my inner room. Locking the door, I close my eyes...”
― Craig Froman, An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness

“And I can't leave. Owl is here, and my parkmates. My kits have found homes here. They might be kittypets, but I can find them if I have to. And they can find me.”
― Erin Hunter, Riverstar's Home