Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn. — Scott Hastie
Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn. — Scott Hastie
Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn. — Scott Hastie
Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn. — Scott Hastie
Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn. — Scott Hastie
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Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

— Scott Hastie
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More “Birds” Quotes

Heat in her birds of prey fingertips, smoke of gilded flowers in her aureate gorging hair. — Laura Gentile, Seraphic Addiction
It was difficult to anticipate—in these monsters with enormous, fantastic beaks which they opened wide immediately after — Bruno Schulz, The Street of Crocodiles
There was the girl, screaming like an angry bird,When it finds its nest left empt and little ones gone." - Sentry — Sophocles, Antigone
Early summer days are a jubilee time for birds. In the fields, around the house, in the barn, in the woods, in the swamp — E.B. White
I don't mind him not talking so much, because you can hear his voice in your heart; the same way you can hear a song in — Adam Rapp, 33 Snowfish
I'm pretty much awake now." (P) "The last time I said that, I passed out in the bathtub." (I) "I remember that. Neil cov — Bailey Cunningham
Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pond — Harold Monro, Collected Poems
The bird music sank into her, like a song you used to know but forgot long ago. You hear a piano play it some day, and f — Katherine Catmull, Summer and Bird
The haft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagles own plumes. We often give our enemies the means of our o — Aesop
I want to paint the way a bird sings. — Claude Monet, Monet By Himself
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. — Miguel de Cervantes
O thrush your song is passing sweet But never a song that you have sung Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear — William Morris