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Birds-Thrush: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations

As I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her strength with over-matching waves.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. III. Act I. Sc. 4. L. 19.

For all the water in the ocean, Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.— Shakespeare — Titus Andronicus. Act IV. Sc. 2. L. 101.

The swan's down-feather, That stands upon the swell at full of tide, And neither way inclines.— Shakespeare — Antony and Cleopatra. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 48.

A melody loud and sweet That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud.— TENNYSON — The Poet's Song.

The stately-sailing swan Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale; And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier isle, Protective of his young.— THOMSON — The Seasons. Spring. L. 775.

Throstle. In the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet.— WM. MOTHERWELL — Jeanie Morrison.

The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill.— Shakespeare — Midsummer Night's Dream. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 130.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.— WORDSWORTH — The Tables Turned.

Thrush. Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy-and oft an unintruding guest, I watch'd her secret toils from day to day; How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, And modell'd it within with wood and clay. S.— CLARE — The Thrush's Nest.

Across the noisy street I hear him careless throw One warning utterance sweet; Then faint at first, and low, The full notes closer grow; Hark what a torrent gush! They pour, they overflow- Sing on, sing on, O thrush!— AUSTIN DOBSON — Ballad of the Thrush.

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 love and I were young.— WM. MORRIS — Other Days.

I said to the brown, brown thrush: "Hush-hush! Through the wood's full strains I hear Thy monotonė deep and clear, Like a sound amid sounds most fine."— D. M. MULOCK — A Rhyme About Birds.

There the thrushes Sing till latest sunlight fiushes In the west.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Sound Sleep.

C. St. 2. Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the moon upon the lea; Are the emeralds of the spring On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, Are there buds on our willow-tree? Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?— THOMAS TOD STODDART — The Angler's

Trysting-Tree. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush.— TENNYSON — In Memoriam. Pt. XCI.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years.— WORDSWORTH — Reverie of Poor Susan.

Whip-poor-will. Where deep and misty shadows float In forest's depths is heard thy note. Like a lost spirit, earthbound still, Art thou, mysterious whip-poor-will.— MARIE LE BARON — The Whip-Poor-

Will. But the whip-poor-will wails on the moor, And day has deserted the west: The moon glimmers down thro' the vines at my door And the robin has flown to her nest. JAMES G, CLARKE-The Wood-Robin. The moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screechowi.— IRVING — Sketch Book. The Legend of

Sleepy Hollow.