I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
Many books belong to sunshine, and should be read out of doors. Clover, violets, and hedge roses breathe from their leaves; they are most lovable in cool lanes, along field paths, or upon stiles overhung by hawthorn, while the blackbird pipes, and the nightingale bathes its brown feathers in the twilight copse.
The song of thrush and blackbird, joy that falls so gently on the ears to celebrate another day of life and living, flying free.
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
We are nature. We are nature seeing nature. The red-winged blackbird flies in us.
I do not know which to prefer - The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
In spring more mortal singers than belong To any one place cover us with song. Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng.
Why do I write historical fiction? Johnny Tremain, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Island of the Blue Dolphins-that's why. I'll never forget how it felt to read those books. I want to write books with the same power to transport readers into another time and place.
Morning has broken Like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken Like the first bird.
The devil's script sells you the heart of a blackbird.
