Quotes & Sayings About Skylark

There was just a beautiful, unearthly silence. He thought of the wood and the bluebells, the owl and the fox, a Hornby train trundling around his bedroom floor, the smell of a cake baking in the oven. The skylark ascending on his thread of song. F-Fox — Kate Atkinson

Sounds of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass — Percy Bysshe Shelley

Everybody hurts, sometimes. — Kate Skylark

No matter where he went in the City, there was an odoriferous mix of food and vehicles, like the alchemic concoctions of some mad gourmet mechanic: Kung Pao Saab Turbo, Buick Skylark Carbonara, Sweet-and-Sour Metro Bus, Honda Bolognese with Burning Clutch Sauce. — Christopher Moore

We cannot change or put right the past, it is our choice whether to be happy in this very moment. The present is all we have and problems only live in the past or the future. — Kate Skylark

Because the road is rough and long,
Shall we despise the skylark's song,
That cheers the wanderer's way?
Or trample down, with reckless feet,
The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet,
Because they soon decay? — Anne Bronte

The best advice is what the skylark gives by singing. — Marty Rubin

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring.
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells' cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green. — William Blake

Never till this day Did life disturb the dense eternity Of joyless quiet; never skylark's song, Or storm-bird's prescient scream, or eaglet's cry, Made vital the gross fog. The very light Is but an alien that can find no welcome — Hartley Coleridge

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert. — Percy Bysshe Shelley

She is like a cat in the dark
And then she is the darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark
And when the sky is starless
All your life you've never seen a woman
Taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win? — Stevie Nicks

Auguries of Innocence
..A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul. — William Blake

Teddy shuddered. The idea of the sublime little bird being plucked from the sky, of its exquisite song being interrupted in full flight, was horrible to him. — Kate Atkinson

Skylark Have you anything to say to me? Won't you tell me where my love can be? — Johnny Mercer

You can muffle the drum, and you can loosen the strings of the lyre, but who shall command the skylark not to sing? — Kahlil Gibran

Flint, Michigan. Detroit as seen backwards through a telescope. The callus on the palm of the state shaped like a welder's mitt. A town where 66.5 percent of the working citizenship are in some way, shape or form linked to the shit-encrusted underbelly of a French buggy racer named Chevrolet and a floppy-eared Scotchman named Buick. A town where 23.5 percent of the population pimp everything from Elvis on velvet to horse tranquilizers to Halo Burgers to NRA bumper stickers. A town where the remaining 10 percent sit back and watch it all go by - sellin' their blood, rollin' convenience stores, puffin' no-brand cigarettes while cursin' their wives and kids and neighbors and the flies sneakin' through the screens and the piss-warm quarts of Red White & Blue and the Skylark parked out back with the busted tranny. — Ben Hamper

A dog starv'd at the master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A horse misus'd upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear,
A skylark wounded on the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing. — William Blake

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? — Percy Bysshe Shelley

Weather in towns is like a skylark in a counting-house-out of place and in the way. — Jerome K. Jerome

After his rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," Welton just stared straight ahead at the alter as if he were waiting for Jesus to climb down off the cross and escape with him. They would load up in Dantly's Skylark and the three of them would go score some Ex in Cedar Rapids. Jesus would like totally ride shotgun and scout for cops. — Adam Rapp

Skylark,Have you seen a valley green with SpringWhere my heart can go a-journeying,Over the shadows in the rainTo a blossom covered lane?And in your lonely flight,Haven't you heard the music in the night,Wonderful music,Faint as a will-o-the-wisp,Crazy as a loon,Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon. — Johnny Mercer

As soon as your fear was over
and it was not fear for what threatened me, but for what might happen to you
when the whole thing was past, as far as you were concerned it was exactly as if nothing at all had happened. Exactly as before, I was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in future treat with doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle and fragile. — Henrik Ibsen

We attend to his later performances as a dramatic actor with respect, but watching the nondancing, nonsinging Astaire is like watching a grounded skylark. — Fred Astaire

It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings. — Oscar Wilde

As often is the case after a powerful, destructive storm, it was an achingly beautiful day. Even so late in the summer, I could still hear the occasional skylark singing, and the fields were speckled with red poppies. — Patrice Kindl

Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane's tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence." The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. — Charlotte Bronte