Curse not the king, no not in thy thought; and curse not the rich
in thy bedchamber; for a read more

Curse not the king, no not in thy thought; and curse not the rich
in thy bedchamber; for a bird of the air shall carry the voice,
and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that read more

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!

A rare bird upon the earth, and exceedingly like a black swan.
[Lat., Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima read more

A rare bird upon the earth, and exceedingly like a black swan.
[Lat., Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.]

Birds of a feather will gather together.

Birds of a feather will gather together.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I was always a lover of soft-winged things.

I was always a lover of soft-winged things.

Over increasingly large areas of the United States, spring now
comes unheralded by the return of the birds, and read more

Over increasingly large areas of the United States, spring now
comes unheralded by the return of the birds, and the early
mornings are strangely silent where once they were filled with
the beauty of bird song.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays read more

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all the joy of life,
And we in the mad spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.

When the swallows homeward fly,
When the roses scattered lie,
When from neither hill or dale,
read more

When the swallows homeward fly,
When the roses scattered lie,
When from neither hill or dale,
Chants the silvery nightingale:
In these works my bleeding heart
Would to thee its brief impart;
When I thus thy image lose
Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose?