‘reserve a nook of shadow for the passing bird’

Let mystery have its place in you;

do not be always turning up your whole soil with the ploughshare of self-examination,

but leave a little fallow corner in your heart ready for any seed the winds may bring,

and reserve a nook of shadow for the passing bird;

keep a place in your heart for the unexpected guests, an altar for the unknown God.

Then if a bird sing among your branches, do not be too eager to tame it.

If you are conscious of something new—thought or feeling, wakening in the depths of your being—

do not be in a hurry to let in light upon it, to look at it;

let the springing germ have the protection of being forgotten,

hedge it round with quiet, and do not break in upon its darkness.

by Henri Frederic Amiel

The Song-Sparrow

by Henry Van Dyke

There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle, joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is, that every year,
Sings “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the earth;
But still he warms his head with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade, and every day
Repeats his sweet, contented lay;
As if to say we need not fear
The season’s change, if love is here,
With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

He does not wear a Joseph’s coat
Of many colors, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat.
And yet of all the well-dressed throng,
Not one can sing so brave a song.
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing to hear
His “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

I Worried….

by Mary Oliver

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

Sympathy

A little bird, with plumage brown,
Beside my window flutters down,
A moment chirps its little strain,
Then taps upon my window-pane

And chirps again, and hops along,
To call my notice to its song;
But I work on, nor heed its lay
‘Til, in neglect, it flies away.

So birds of peace and hope and love
Come fluttering earthward from above
To settle on life’s window-sills
And ease our load of earthly ills;

But we, in traffic’s rush and din,
Too deep engaged to let them in,
With deadened heart and sense plod on,
Nor know our loss till they are gone.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

• 

• 

A bird is three things: Feathers, flight and song, And feathers are the least of these.

– Marjorie Allen Seiffert –

caring for the fall of a sparrow

If you’re going to care about the fall of the sparrow you can’t pick and choose who’s going to be the sparrow. It’s everybody.     

Madeleine L’Engle

Read more: https://www.wiseoldsayings.com/sparrow-quotes/#ixzz6SrD6zKa9

 

If God Could Talk…..

If God could talk
it wouldn’t be in English
or Latin or Arabic
It wouldn’t be in Yiddish
or Spanglish or pidgin

If God could talk
the words would crack like thunder
pour down like a torrent of jewels
flooding our basements with shining ideas,
sparkling conclusions.

If God could talk
a thought would be a redwood
a word an ocean
a sentence a century.

If God could talk
I would not have to
for all the words today requires
would flow in on the morning breeze
and find their way to the morning news.

If God could talk
God’s word would be carried
on the wings of eagles
the ankles of gnats
in the pouches of kangaroos
and the paws of polar bears.

It would spread through the sound
of honey bees and hyenas
be translated into a rainbow
by blue herons and cardinals,
blackbirds and yellowjackets
pink flamingos and gray whales,
purple martins and chameleons.

It would cause rivers to flow,
tides to rise, moons to wax,
suns to set, sparrows to fly,
planets to revolve,
universes to expand
if God could talk.

if god could talk – jan phillips

One Heart

Look at the birds. Even flying
is born

out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open

at either end of day.
The work of wings

was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.

 

Book of My Nights by Li-Young Lee

by nothing more…. Fred LaMotte

What merely Is.
A sparrow exulting
in the mist,
this unfolding fern,
the sorrow of crushed
plastic bottles
on mossy stones
along the creek bank where
once mighty
daffodils grew.
The tear that, filling
your eye,
fills the world.
What is, is.
What may be
has no Presence.
Oh mind, please listen
to the sparrow,
attend the fern.
Be saved
by nothing more.

Fred LaMonte

Christmas Sparrow by Billy Collins

The first thing I heard this morning
was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—

wings against glass as it turned out
downstairs when I saw the small bird
rioting in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of glass into the spacious light.

Then a noise in the throat of the cat
who was hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap of a basement door,
and later released from the soft grip of teeth.
On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a shirt and got it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.

But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
it burst into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.

For the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms as I wondered about
the hours it must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.