Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.— Gerard Manley Hopkins
Unpopular Thrush quotations
Nowadays, people are so jeezled up. If they took some chamomile tea and spent more time rocking on the porch in the evening listening to the liquid song of the hermit thrush, they might enjoy life more.
When I bought my farm, I did not know what a bargain I had in the bluebirds, daffodils and thrushes; as little did I know what sublime mornings and sunsets I was buying.
In a world where thrushes sing and willow trees are golden in the spring, boredom should have been included among the seven deadly sins.
I long for wildness, a nature which I cannot put my foot through, woods where the wood thrush forever sings, where the hours are early morning ones, and there is dew on the grass, and the day is forever unproved, where I might have a fertile unknown for a soil about me.
The song of thrush and blackbird, joy that falls so gently on the ears to celebrate another day of life and living, flying free.
O thrush, your song is passing sweet, But never a song that you have sung Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear love and I were young.
I question not if thrushes sing, If roses load the air;
Beyond my heart I need not reach When all is summer there.
When a caterpillar eats a leaf, then a thrush eats the caterpillar, or when a hawk eats the thrush only 5 to 20% of usable energy is transferred from one level to the next. ... Thus herbivores will account for a much smaller fraction of the biomass [than plants] and the carnivores for a still smaller fraction.
Nothing is so beautiful as spring -- when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
Death is only an old door Set in a garden wall;
On quiet hinges it gives, at dusk When the thrushes call. Along the lintel are green leaves, Beyond, the light lies still; Very weary and willing feet Go over that sill. There is nothing to trouble any heart; Nothing to hurt at all. Death is only an old door In a garden wall.
Tis toil's reward, that sweetens industry, As love inspires with strength the enraptur'd thrush.
Fortunately, however, birds don't understand pep talks.
Not even St. Francis'. Just imagine, he went on, preaching sermons to perfectly good thrushes and goldfinches and chiff-chaffs! What presumption! Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut and let the birds preach to him?
Fancy your having no sunshine in London yesterday! Here it was glorious, like full summer, and I sat up with the window wide open, listening to the discourse of two amorous thrushes.
In spring more mortal singers than belong To any one place cover us with song.
Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng.
Here, also, the future was cried aloud by the wind through the rocks, so that all those who heard would shiver, and then the liquid spring song of the thrush would make all the beauty of moonlight and sunlight blend together, making it true, so true, that happiness must come again
I never heard a wood thrush until I was a grown man, though I must have been surrounded by them every spring. Each year I discover new sights and sounds to teach me how blind and deaf I must still be.
Hush! With sudden gush As from a fountain sings in yonder bush The Hermit Thrush.
True worship comes from people who are deeply emotional and who love deep and sound doctrine. Strong affections for God rooted in thrush are the bone and marrow of biblical worship.
The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
And from the phlox and mignonette Rich attars drift on every hand;
And when star-vestured twilight comes The pale moths weave a saraband. And crickets in the aisles of grass With their clear fifing pierce the hush; And somewhere you many hear anear The passion of the hermit thrush.
I do not know whether there be, as a rule, more vocal expression of the sentiment of love between a man and a woman, than there is between two thrushes. They whistle and call to each other, guided by instinct rather than by reason.
Common sense! It's nothing more than common sense for the preservation of our culture, the preservation of our country, the preservation and growth of our economy. And yet Jim Acosta and Glenn Thrush - and everybody in the press corps and practically every other Democrat - hears this and the only reaction they have is, "No compassion! No compassion for the less fortunate! No compassion for the victims of the world!"
Members of the media, Jim Acosta of CNN and Glenn Thrush, formerly Politico, now the New York Times, and all of them actually think the Statue of Liberty is the symbol of immigration. And they believe the Emma Lazarus poem that is on the pedestal is the equivalent of immigration policy in the United States. They're not the only ones.
[Glenn] Thrush's emails to [Hillary] Clinton campaign chairman John Podesta were splashed across screens in newspapers nationwide. Thrush was criticized for sharing a half dozen paragraphs of a draft of a story for Podesta to rebut. Some reporters do just that. Other newsrooms have policies discouraging or forbidding it. Thrush says he does the same for Republicans.
And if there is no lining to the world? If a thrush on a branch is not a sign, But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day Make no sense following each other?
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.
He is no longer a city dweller who has even once in his life caught a ruff or seen how, on clear and cool autumn days, flocks of migrating thrushes drift over a village. Until his death he will be drawn to freedom.
Men had reached into the scrub and along its boundaries, had snatched what they could get and had gone away, uneasy in that vast indifferent peace; for a man was nothing, crawling ant-like among the myrtle bushes under the pines. Now they were gone, it was as though they had never been. The silence of the scrub was primordial. The wood-thrush crying across it might have been the first bird in the world-or the last.
Hee that hath patience hath fatt thrushes for a farthing.
A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only.
I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.
Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went- Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament. But no, I was out for stars: I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.