Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
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Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought?
Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last.

Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last.

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.

Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray,
With joyous musick wake the dawning day.

Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray,
With joyous musick wake the dawning day.

Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.

Birdes of a feather will flocke togither.

Fish got to swim and birds got to fly
I got to love one man till I die,
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Fish got to swim and birds got to fly
I got to love one man till I die,
Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.

He is a fool who lets slip a bird in the hand for a bird in the
bush.

He is a fool who lets slip a bird in the hand for a bird in the
bush.

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

Every bird that upwards swings
Bears the Cross upon its wings.

Every bird that upwards swings
Bears the Cross upon its wings.