Dawn Chorus Quotes

There is nothing more beautiful than nature early in the morning.

The birds they sangat the break of day.Start again!!I heard them say

I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.

I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day. No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things.

'Tis always morning somewhere, and aboveThe awakening continents, from shore to shore,Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

Up at the crank of dawn.

Why do birds sing in the morning? It's the triumphant shout: 'We got through another night!'

To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise.

This morning came on to me, silver wings silhouetted against the child's sunrise.

And now the herald lark Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

It is just dawn, daylight: that gray and lonely suspension filled with the peaceful and tentative waking of birds. The air, inbreathed, is like spring water. He breathes deep and slow, feeling with each breath himself diffuse in the natural grayness, becoming one with loneliness and quiet that has never known fury or despair. "That was all I wanted," he thinks, in a quiet and slow amazement. "That was all, for thirty years. That didn't seem to be a whole lot to ask in thirty years.

The jagged mountains were pure blue in the dawn and everywhere birds twittered and the sun when it rose caught the moon in the west so that they lay opposed to each other across the earth, the sun whitehot and the moon a pale replica, as if they were the ends of a common bore beyond whose terminals burned worlds past all reckoning.

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.

The brassy wood-pigeons Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun Rises upon a world well-tried and old.

I'm up at the crack of dawn.

The sigh of all the seas breaking in measure round the isles soothed them; the night wrapped them; nothing broke their sleep, until, the birds beginning and the dawn weaving their thin voices in to its whiteness

Tape the sound of the moon fading at dawn. Give it to your mother to listen to when she's in sorrow.

Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.

Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.

Birds... scream at the top of their lungs in horrified hellish rage every morning at daybreak to warn us all of the truth. They know the truth. Screaming bloody murder all over the world in our ears, but sadly we don't speak bird.

All birds are incipient or would-be songsters in the spring. I find corroborative evidence of this even in the crowing of the cock.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.

The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.