Birdsong brings relief to my longing. I am just as ecstatic as they are, but with nothing to say.
I would like to paint the way a bird sings.
Birds sing on a bare bough; O, believer, canst not thou?
As one sits here in summertime and listens to the cuckoo and all the other bird songs, the crackling and buzzing of insects, as one gazes at the shining colors of flowers, doth one become dumbstruck before the Kingdom of the Creator.
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
The sound of birds stops the noise in my mind.
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.
The fish in the water is silent, the animals on the earth is noisy, the bird in the air is singing. But man has in him the silence of the sea, the noise of the earth and the music of the air.
The sun had not risen, but the vault of heaven was rich with the winning, softness that "brings and shuts the day," while the whole air was filled with the carols of birds, the hymns of the feathered tribe.
Outside the trees dragged their leaves like nets through the depths of the air; the sound of water was in the room and through the waves came the voices of birds singing.
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
