Best 288 quotes in «birds quotes» category

Wait," Honey said to herself, as she realized something amazing. "I’m already an excellent flyer. Maybe I can fight crime too.

Wake up with the birds and sleep with the stars.

Wake up with the birds and go to sleep with the stars.

Wanasayansi wana uwezo wa kupeleleza hadi kipindi cha karne ya kwanza ambapo Yesu aliishi, alikufa, alifufuka na alipaa kwenda mbinguni, na wana uwezo wa kujua mambo mengi kwa hakika yaliyofanyika katika kipindi hicho na hata katika kipindi cha kabla ya hapo. Kuna miujiza ambayo Yesu aliifanya ambayo haiko ndani ya Biblia. Kwa mfano, Biblia inasema Yesu alizaliwa ndani ya zizi la ng’ombe wakati sayansi inasema alizaliwa nje ya zizi la ng’ombe; na muujiza wa kwanza kuufanya ambao hauko ndani ya Biblia ni kutembea mara tu baada ya kuzaliwa, na watu na ndege wa angani kuganda kabla ya kuzaliwa Masihi na kabla ya wakunga kufika kumsaidia Maria Magdalena kujifungua. Akiwa na umri wa miaka sita, sayansi inasema, Yesu alikuwa akicheza na mtoto mwenzake juu ya paa la nyumba ya jirani na mara Yesu akamsukuma mwenzake kutoka juu hadi chini na mwenzake huyo akafariki papo hapo. Watu walipomsonga sana Yesu kwa kumtuhumu kuwa yeye ndiye aliyesababisha kifo cha mwenzake, na kwamba wangemfungulia mashtaka, Yesu alikataa katakata kuhusika na kifo hicho. Lakini walipozidi kumsonga, aliusogelea mwili wa rafiki yake kisha akamwita na kumwambia asimame. Yule mtoto alisimama! Huo ukawa muujiza mkubwa wa kwanza wa Yesu Kristo, kufufua mtu nje ya maandiko matakatifu. Kuna mifano mingi inayodhihirisha uwepo wa Mungu ambayo wanasayansi hawawezi hata kuipatia majibu. Tukio la Yoshua kusimamisha jua limewashangaza wanasayansi hadi nyakati za leo. Mwanzoni mwa miaka ya 70 wanasayansi walijaribu kurudisha muda nyuma kwa kompyuta kuona kama kweli wangekuta takribani siku moja imepotea kama ilivyorekodiwa katika Biblia. Cha kushangaza, cha kushangaza mno, walikuta saa 23 na dakika 20 zimepotea katika mazingira ambayo hawakuweza na hawataweza kuyaelewa. Walipochunguza vizuri walikuta ni kipindi cha miaka ya 1500 KK (Jumanne tarehe 22 Julai) ambacho ndicho tukio la Yoshua la kusimamisha jua na kusogeza mwezi nyuma digrii 10, ambazo ni sawa na mzunguko wa dakika 40, lilipotokea. Kwa kutumia elimu ya wendo, elimu ya kupanga miaka na matukio ya Kibiblia, dunia iliumbwa Jumapili tarehe 22 Septemba mwaka 4000 KK. Hata hivyo, mahesabu ya kalenda yanaonyesha kuwa Septemba 22 ilikuwa Jumatatu (si Jumapili) na kwamba kosa hilo labda lilisababishwa na siku ya Yoshua iliyopotea. Hayo yote ni kwa mujibu wa Profesa C. A. Totten, wa Chuo Kikuu cha Yale, katika kitabu chake cha ‘Joshua’s Long Day and the Dial of Ahaz: A Scientific Vindication and a Midnight Cry’ kilichochapishwa mwaka 1890. Kama hakuna Mungu iliwezekanaje Yoshua aombe jua lisimame na jua likasimama kweli? Iliwezekanaje Yesu aseme atakufa, atafufuka na atapaa kwenda mbinguni na kweli ikatokea kama alivyosema? Ndani ya Biblia kuna tabiri 333 zilizotabiri maisha yote ya Yesu Kristo hapa duniani na zote zilitimia – bila kupungua hata moja. Utasemaje hapo hakuna Mungu? Mungu yupo, naamini, sijui. Tukio la Yesu kufa, kufufuka na kupaa kwenda mbinguni si la vitabu vitakatifu pekee, hata sayansi inakubaliana na hilo.

We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born, and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn’t sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can’t fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don’t stand a chance. We’re mired in gravity, we’re earthbound. We’re ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.

We have a friend, and Anglophile American city-dweller in his eighties, whose main ambition, now, is to hear a cuckoo call, for he never has, and perhaps he never will, for he is rather deaf. But, if he came and sat under the magic apple tree for an afternoon in May, it would be quiet enough, and then he might listen to the cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo until he had his fill.

We have never understood how birds manage to fly, Nor who the genius is who makes up dreams, Now how heaven and earth can appear in a poem.

We were suppose to be like the birds.

When a group of people sing together, we make up a chorus. When birds do, it's more like a whole symphony orchestra.

When God becomes glad with our good works, then He sends the cute animals, birds, butterflies etc. near us like a signal to express His happiness!

When he fell in love with birds and began to photograph them, his anxieties dissipated. The sound of birdsong reminded him to look outwards at the world.

We like to romanticize the wild, raw, majestic beauty of nature. But when you take a closer look, nature is really just a giant fuckfest. That beautiful bird chirping? It's a mating call. That pretty little bird is trying to get laid. And why does the peacock have such beautiful feathers? To attract females. Because he's trying to get laid.

We want murderous throats affairs that resemble bright birds in death spirals.

What joy can compare with that of a bird that has just learned she can fly?

What joy compares with that of a bird that has just learned she can fly?

When I was sharing crumbs, the birds flew in flocks- When I needed crumbs -they all flew south

when that small Siberian bird fell out of the sky over Gray's River, not once but twice, he brought with him the sweetness of chance in any place, the certainty of wonder in all places. And if that's not grace, I don't know what it.

When the weaver bird flies, nobody talks; when the busy bee flies, no one will make comments... But when a human being begins to fly, you begin to hear talks in the town such as "abomination!... where did he get the wings from?". Never mind! Your dreams are your wings, so decide to fly!

When you are trapped in a cage with broken wings, freedom can seem like a faraway deeply buried treasure. But it is always within reach.

why do birds fly? because they love the art of flying...why do people love? because we love the art of loving...being in love is like being a bird and flying...so if you are not embracing love right now, you are just a bird waiting to fly

Whenever people see birds flying through the sky, it's said that they get the urge to go on a journey.

Without birds, trees would be very lonely and men too!

When i see birds one word pop-up in my thought - EXPLORER Great possibilities are always right in front of us, and we dont see them, bcz we choose not to. I think we need to be open to EXPLORING something new just like those birds, for the purpose of gaining EXPERIENCE (Ejump,2017)

When you see birds flying from the sunset towards you, you will find it hard to convince yourself that they are not angels from heaven!

Why can't we fly like birds in the sky? Because we are like trees in a forest. We stand and take root. But dad, I don't want to stay in one place. I want to fly.

Why do the birds return?” “What d’you mean?” Brandon looked lost all of a sudden. “I mean, they could go anywhere. They’re free…so why do they return to this place?” Brandon grinned. “Cause home’s home no matter how bleak.

Why do we lack the capacity to celebrate small bits of perfection? Unless it's obvious on a grand scale, it's not worth acknowledging. I find that extremely tiresome." "Birds are perfect. Yet most people completely overlook them." "Well, if birds are perfect, then you are as well. And I can't imagine anyone failing to notice you, Alice.

Wings can only fly as long as the bird flies Soul blackens when you put on vestment of lies White candle wax cries for ignitable wick Jealous people burn to make your heart feel sick

With birds flying around, man’s desire for having wings rises to infinite!

Women are still cats and birds. Or at the best, cows.

You bad birds, But God shall not punish you, you Shall be with us in heaven, though less Conscious of your happiness, perhaps, than we. Hell is a not quite satisfactory heaven, probably, But you are the fruit and jewels Of my arrangement . . .

You can pretend we are one or we are alone but the religions based on each are doors someone drew on a wall in the hope they could make a getaway before whoever's wall it was got home There's always a gap in the photostream or a certain dubiousness to the signature A bird in the air is worth more to itself than all the ones in the grip of something

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

You must be crazy, after all, if a bird loves you.

You will be able to do great things when you know and truly understand that all you really have and can control is your own life. Everything else is second to that.” ~ShirLee McGarry~ 06/12/2010

You are not too small. No one is ever too small to offer help.

You could do worse than to spend your days staring at blue jays.

A glimpse of my feathers. Show too much and they’ll tear you apart Bird of Paradise Born in the trenches Facing the mouth of a gun.

A bird, unable to fly, is still a bird; but a human unable to love is an inexpensive stone: like a piece of uric acid stone

A bush-warbler, Coming to the verandah-edge, Left its droppings On the rice-cakes.

A flash of harmless lightning, A mist of rainbow dyes. The burnished sunbeams brightening From flower to flower he flies; While wakes the nodding blossom But just too late to see What lip hath touched her bosom And drained her rosary.

A hungry cat does no favour to a trapped bird!

Alice haunted the mossy edge of the woods, lingering in patches of shade. She was waiting to hear his Austin-Healey throttle back when he careened down the utility road separating the state park from the cabins rimming the lake, but only the whistled conversation of buntings echoed in the branches above. The vibrant blue males darted deeper into the trees when she blew her own 'sweet-sweet chew-chew sweet-sweet' up to theirs. Pine seedlings brushed against her pants as she pushed through the understory, their green heads vivid beneath the canopy. She had dressed to fade into the forest; her hair was bundled up under a long-billed cap, her clothes drab and inconspicuous. When at last she heard his car, she crouched behind a clump of birch and made herself as small as possible, settling into a shallow depression of ferns and leaf litter.

All he could do was wait like this, patiently, until it grew light out and the birds awoke and began their day. All he could do was trust in the birds, in all the birds, with their wings and beaks.

A bird alone could have extricated himself from that place.

Above humanity, where the airplanes fly and birds circle the thermals, silence stretches for eternity....

A few moments later, a group of white birds landed on the steps to watch her. "Hello there!" she said and removed some birdseed from her pocket, laying it on the steps for them to eat. When they were finished, they stayed to watch her work. She didn't mind. It helped to have company, even if they couldn't talk. She found herself talking to them sometimes. True, some might call her mad for conversing with animals, but who was paying attention?

A goose flies by a chart the Royal Geographic Society could not improve.

A human being can only endure depression up to a certain point; when this point of saturation is reached it becomes necessary for him to discover some element of pleasure, no matter how humble or on how low a level, in his environment if he is to go on living at all. In my case these insignificant birds with their subdued colourings have provided just sufficient distraction to keep me from total despair. Each day I find myself spending longer and longer at the window watching their flights, their quarrels, their mouse-quick flutterings, their miniature feuds and alliances. Curiously enough, it is only when I am standing in front of the window that I feel any sense of security. While I am watching the birds I believe that I am comparatively immune from the assaults of life. The very indifference to humanity of these wild creatures affords me a certain safeguard. Where all else is dangerous, hostile and liable to inflict pain, they alone can do me no injury because, probably, they are not even aware of my existence. The birds are at once my refuge and my relaxation.

All praise and honor! I confess That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed Are wholesome and nutritious food, But not enough for all our needs; Poets-the best of them-are birds Of passage; where their instinct leads They range abroad for thoughts and words And from all climes bring home the seeds That germinate in flowers or weeds. They are not fowls in barnyards born To cackle o'er a grain of corn; And, if you shut the horizon down To the small limits of their town, What do you but degrade your bard Till he at last becomes as one Who thinks the all-encircling sun Rises and sets in his back yard?