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Quotes About Blackbird

I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
~ Wallace Stevens
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
~ Wallace Stevens
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendos The blackbird whistling Or just after.
~ Wallace Stevens
Morning has broken Like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken Like the first bird.
~ Eleanor Farjeon
I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
~ Wallace Stevens
The Sun Has Burst The Sky The sun has burst the sky Because I love you And the river its banks. The sea laps the great rocks Because I love you And takes no heed of the moon dragging it away And saying coldly 'Constancy is not for you'. The blackbird fills the air Because I love you With spring and lawns and shadows falling on lawns. The people walk in the street and laugh I love you And far down the river ships sound their hooters Crazy with joy because I love you
~ Jenny Joseph
When the whistling-thrush released A deep sweet secret on the trembling air; Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows, Black rose in the long ago summer, This was your song: It isn't time that's passing by, It is you and I.
~ Ruskin Bond
King Dan sat on his stallion fierce Swords did slice and spears did pierce But in a tree upon the field Perched a small, keen-eyed blackbird And the blackbird did not sing No, the blackbird did not sing
~ Shannon Hale
The Three Elders of the World,' he said, 'are the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd, the Eagle of Gwernabwy, and the Blackbird of Celli Gadarn.
~ Susan Cooper
The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.
~ John Fowles