Faith is the bird that feels the light

when the dawn is still dark.



Rabindranath Tagore

Last edited by Inda

Oh, bird of my soul, fly away now,

For I possess a hundred fortified towers.



Rumi

Last edited by Inda
LITERATURE

A Short Analysis of Emily Dickinson’s ‘Hope is the thing with feathers’

 

Emily Dickinson‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

https://interestingliterature....thing-with-feathers/

 

Last edited by Vicky2
Where cuckoo
Vanishes -
An island.
higher than a skylark
resting in the sky

on a mountain pass



Basho

Even these long days
are not nearly long enough
for the skylarks to sing
Last edited by yoko

This is a lovely thread. many birds are flying south, but also many are staying here.

jays squawk

from redwood tops—

the hush of distant traffic

 

distant birdsong—

a small leaf falls

down the back of my neck

Last edited by Vicky2

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

Emily Dickinson

Last edited by Sue 1

Thank you girls for bringing back this post, and thank you yoko for the original post.

Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.

Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters -
That is what I am.

Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle -
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style!

Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases -
So the Tale begins.

Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted -
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.

Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"

Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting -
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!

Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter -
Merely for the fun.

Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten -
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.

Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled -
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.



William Blake

Last edited by Inda

Thank you for bringing back my post.



Alone he cries

The motherless bird...

autumn dusk.

Issa

Last edited by yoko

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