Dove Bird Love Quotes

I walk through the seasons and always the birds are singing and screaming and keening for love When you're with me it seems so absurd that I should be jealous of the jay and the dove.

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me. Raise me a daïs of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.

So Recklessly Exposed December and January, gone. Tulips coming up. It's time to watch how trees stagger in the wind and roses never rest. Wisteria and Jasmine twist on themselves. Violet kneels to Hyacinth, who bows. Narcissus winks, wondering what will the lightheaded Willow say of such slow dancing by Cypress. Painters come outdoors with brushes. I love their hands. The birds sing suddenly and all at once. The soul says Ya Hu, quietly. A dove calls, Where, ku? Soul, you will find it. Now the roses show their breasts. No one hides when the Friend arrives. The Rose speaks openly to the Nightingale. Notice how the Green Lily has several tongues but still keeps her secret. Now the Nightingale sings this love that is so recklessly exposed, like you.

INVITATION TO LOVE Come when the nights are bright with stars Or when the moon is mellow; Come when the sun his golden bars Drops on the hay-field yellow. Come in the twilight soft and gray, Come in the night or come in the day, Come, O love, whene'er you may, And you are welcome, welcome. You are sweet, O Love, dear Love, You are soft as the nesting dove. Come to my heart and bring it rest As the bird flies home to its welcome nest. Come when my heart is full of grief Or when my heart is merry; Come with the falling of the leaf Or with the redd'ning cherry. Come when the year's first blossom blows, Come when the summer gleams and glows, Come with the winter's drifting snows, And you are welcome, welcome.

There are preconceived notions - of where I should go, of what I should do, and even of who I should do it with - of who I am supposed to be as a black man. But my choice of career and my passion for wildness means that I will forever be the odd bird, the raven in a horde of white doves, the blackbird in a flock of snow buntings.

What makes my bed seem hard seeing it is soft? Or why slips downe the Coverlet so oft? Although the nights be long, I sleepe not tho, My sides are sore with tumbling to and fro. Were Love the cause, it's like I shoulde descry him, Or lies he close, and shoots where none can spie him? T'was so, he stroke me with a slender dart, Tis cruell love turmoyles my captive hart. Yeelding or striving doe we give him might, Lets yeeld, a burden easly borne is light. I saw a brandisht fire increase in strength, Which being not shakt, I saw it die at length. Yong oxen newly yokt are beaten more, Then oxen which have drawne the plow before. And rough jades mouths with stubburn bits are tome, But managde horses heads are lightly borne, Unwilling Lovers, love doth more torment, Then such as in their bondage feele content. Loe I confesse, I am thy captive I, And hold my conquered hands for thee to tie. What needes thou warre, I sue to thee for grace, With armes to conquer armlesse men is base, Yoke VenusDoves, put Mirtle on thy haire, Vulcan will give thee Chariots rich and faire. The people thee applauding thou shalte stand, Guiding the harmelesse Pigeons with thy hand. Yong men and women, shalt thou lead as thrall, So will thy triumph seeme magnificall. I lately cought, will have a new made wound, And captive like be manacled and bound. Good meaning, shame, and such as seeke loves wrack Shall follow thee, their hands tied at their backe. Thee all shall feare and worship as a King, Jo, triumphing shall thy people sing. Smooth speeches, feare and rage shall by thee ride, Which troopes hath alwayes bin on Cupids side: Thou with these souldiers conquerest gods and men, Take these away, where is thy honor then? Thy mother shall from heaven applaud this show, And on their faces heapes of Roses strow. With beautie of thy wings, thy faire haire guilded, Ride golden Love in Chariots richly builded. Unlesse I erre, full many shalt thou burne, And give woundes infinite at everie turne. In spite of thee, forth will thy arrowes flie, A scorching flame burnes all the standers by. So having conquerd Inde, was Bacchus hew, Thee Pompous birds and him two tygres drew. Then seeing I grace thy show in following thee, Forbeare to hurt thy selfe in spoyling mee. Beholde thy kinsmans Caesars prosperous bandes, Who gardes the conquered with his conquering hands. -- ELEGIA 2 (Quodprimo Amore correptus, in triumphum duci se a Cupidine patiatur)

The Voice of my Beloved! Through all my heart it thrills, He leaps upon the mountains, And skips upon the hills. For like a roe or young hart, So swift and strong is he, He looketh through my window, And beckoneth unto me. "Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away with me, Gone are the snows of winter, The rains no more we see. "The flowers are appearing, The little birds all sing, The turtle dove is calling, Through all the land 'tis spring. "The shoots are on the grapevines, The figs are on the tree, Arise, my love, my fair one, And come away with me. "Why is my dove still hiding? When all things else rejoice, Oh, let me see thee, fair one, Oh, let me hear thy voice." (Cant. 2:8-14)

Invitation to Love Come when the nights are bright with stars Or come when the moon is mellow; Come when the sun his golden bars Drops on the hay-field yellow. Come in the twilight soft and gray, Come in the night or come in the day, Come, O love, whene’er you may, And you are welcome, welcome. You are sweet, O Love, dear Love, You are soft as the nesting dove. Come to my heart and bring it to rest As the bird flies home to its welcome nest. Come when my heart is full of grief Or when my heart is merry; Come with the falling of the leaf Or with the redd’ning cherry. Come when the year’s first blossom blows, Come when the summer gleams and glows, Come with the winter’s drifting snows, And you are welcome, welcome

I call on you, Beloved, merge with me in Love, heal this heart and teach me of all we deem Above I lose the I to find You, to drink from Endless Well, the one that seems so far when all we see is shell Pour this jug and fill it, may it overflow, may it run like river Nile, may it forever grow. Who am I without my Home, without my Source, my Love? A wanderer lost in desert land, a bird, but ... Mourning dove I've traveled long and traveled far, seeking you in skin, when all along you've been right here, calling from within

The Reverie of Poor Susan AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass’d away from her eyes!

At childhood’s end, the houses petered out into playing fields, the factory, allotments kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth! In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry. The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods, away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake, my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem. I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf? Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws and went in search of a living bird – white dove – which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth. One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said, licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books. Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head, warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood. But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroom stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out, season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones. I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up. Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone. Little Red-Cap

But love itself does not argue. At first it is seen far off, like a beautiful bird of rare plumage, among flowers, on a morning in spring; it comes nearer, it is timid, it advances, it recedes, it poises on swiftly beating wings, it soars out of sight, but suddenly it is nearer than before; it changes shapes, and grows vast and terrible, till its flight is like the rushing of the whirlwind; then all is calm again, and in the stillness a sweet voice sings the chant of peace or the melancholy dirge of an endless regret; it is no longer the dove, nor the eagle, nor the storm that leaves ruin in its track—it is everything, it is life, it is the world itself, for ever and time without end, for good or evil, for such happiness as may pass all understanding, if God will, and if not, for undying sorrow

I love the wild things, and the birds most of all. My education began, I am sure, the moment I was pushed free of the womb by Mother, born on Prade Ranch in the back bedroom on a late afternoon in early March-the seventh of March which is when the golden-cheeked warblers usually return to Prade Ranch after wintering down in Mexico. There would have been doves calling, as if to counter Mother's gasps and cries, and the flylike buzz of the hummingbirds (the aggressive black-chinned ones making most of the racket) at the nectar feeders just outside the open window. There would have been a breeze stirring the lace curtains. Father in the room with the doctor, and Grandfather and Chubb on the back porch, waiting for this next new part of the world to begin. Grandfather said he knew that was going to be the day, not just because of the golden-cheeked warblers' return, but because he'd heard a vermilion flycatcher buzzing-pit-zee,pit-zee-all the day before, and on into the night, well past midnight-the only time he's ever heard of that, before or since.

Paper Bag" I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star To pray on, or wish on, or something like that I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had But then the dove of hope began its downward slope And I believed for a moment that my chances Were approaching to be grabbed But as it came down near, so did a weary tear I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb Looking for a little hope Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine, And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified Come on put a little love here in my void,' he said 'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything' But he didn't get it I thought he was a man But he was just a little boy Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love Hunger hurts, but I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love Hunger hurts, but I want him so bad, oh it kills Because I know that I'm a mess that he don't wanna clean up I got to fold because these hands are just too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving, it works, when it costs too much to love

growing up we always had a pack of dogs, usually four held in prestige among many familiars them and a few cats we let indoors though we loved every bird, mouse, tadpole, crayfish froze in a spring frost we grew more conscious of weather wide skies read power lines hum dove coos the leaves turnt dirt melt change on the breeze creaks and rain the gravel trucks of spring full by slow then empties in summer barrelling too fast past our hillbilly stake mother threw potatoes later hard to explain to the police who got called in from a county over drove out to say, "ma'am, you can't throw potatoes at trucks" then all polite as we stood with our pack and stuck to our guns

The Relics" I slipped them into my friend’s palm —  the tiny crucifix, and dove, from off my mother’s pendant watch —  and I asked her to walk them up through the brush toward timberline, and find a place to hurl them, for safekeeping. Now, she writes, “I walked up the canyon at dusk, warm, with a touch of fall blowing down the canyon, came to an outcrop, above a steep drop — far below, a seasonal creek, green willows. I stood on a boulder and held out my hand. I wished your mother all the love in the world, and I sent the talismans flying off the cliff. They were so small, and the wind was blowing, so I never saw or heard them land.” My mother is where I cannot find her, she is gone beyond recall, she lies in her sterling shapes light as the most weightless bone in the body, her stirrup bone, which was ground up and sown into the sea. I do not know what a soul is, I think of it as the smallest, the core, civil right. And she is wild now with it, she touches and is touched by no one knows — down, or droppings of a common nighthawk, root of bird’s foot fern, antenna of Hairstreak or Echo Azure, or stepped on by the huge translucent Jerusalem cricket. There was something deeply right about the physical elements — atoms, and cells, and marrow — of my mother’s body, when I was young, and now her delicate insignias receive the direct touch of the sun, and scatter it, unseen, all over her home.

This afternoon a flock of doves settled on my porch. Their silence took the shape of all I ever wanted to say. Today, the miracle we want aches inside the trees. Why believe anything except what is unbelievable? […] Now the leaves turn into messages that are simply impossible to read. The roots turn into roads as they break through the surface. How can I even know what I mean? Beneath the hem of night the rain falls asleep on the grass. We have to turn into each other. One heart inside the other’s heart. One love. One word. Inside us, our shadows will walk into water, the water will walk into the sky. Blind. Faithful. Inside us the music turns into a flock of birds. Theirs is a song whose promise we must believe the way the moon believes the earth, the fire believes the wood, that is, for no reason, for no reason at all.

Last night, dancing alone on the lagoon shore, swaying about with the moon and mayflies, she'd imagined she was ready. Thought she knew all about mating from watching doves. No one had ever told her about sex, and her only experience with foreplay had been with Tate. But she knew the details from her biology books and had seen more creatures copulating- and it wasn't merely "rubbing their bottoms together" like Jodie had said- than most people ever would. But this was too abrupt- picnic, then mate the Marsh Girl. Even male birds woo the females for a while, flashing brilliant feathers, building bowers, staging magnificent dances and love songs. Yes, Chase had laid out a banquet, but she was worth more than fried chicken. And "Dixie" didn't count as a love song. She should've known it would be like this. Only time male mammals hover is when they're in the rut.

Urgent Story" When the oracle said, ‘If you keep pigeons you will never lose home.’ I kept pigeons. They flicked their red eyes over me, a deft trampling of that humanly proud distance by which remaining aloof in it’s own fullness. I administered crumbs, broke sky with them like breaking the lemon-light of the soul's amnesia for what It wants but will neither take nor truh let go. How it revived me, to release them! And at that moment of flight to disavow the imprint, to tear their compass, out by the roots of some green meadow they might fly over on the way to an immaculate freedom, meadow in which a woman has taken off her blouse, then taken off the man's flannel shirt in their sky-drenched arc of one, then the other above each other's eyelids is a branding of daylight, the interior of its black ambush in which two joys lame the earth a while with heat and cloudwork under wing-beats. Then she was quiet with him. And he with her. The world hummed with crickets, with bees nudging the lupins. It is like that when the earth counts its riches—noisy with desire even when desire has strengthened our bodies and moved us into the soak of harmony. Her nipples in sunlight have crossed his palm wind-sweet with savor and the rest is so knelt before that when they stand upright the flight-cloud of my tamed birds shapes an arm too short for praise. Oracle, my dovecot is an over and over nearer to myself when its black eyes are empty. But by nightfall I am dark before dark if one bird is missing. Dove left open by love in a meadow, Dove commanding me not to know where it sank into the almost-night—for you I will learn to play the concertina, to write poems full of hateful jasmine and longing, to keep the dead alive, to sicken at the least separation. Dove, for whose sake I will never reach home.

Did dinosaurs sing? Was there a teeming, singing wilderness with all the species thumping around, tuning up for the next millennia? Of course, dinosaurs sang, I thought. They are the ancestors of the singing birds and cousins to the roaring crocodiles…turns out, no. Turns out the syrinx, the organ that produces birdsong and the larynx, the organ that produces operatic arias, didn’t evolve until after the dinosaur extinction event…Some dinosaurs blew air into their closed mouths and through nasal cavities into resonance chambers, which we see in fossils as bony crests. They made the forest echo with clear, ominous tones, eerily like a cello. I have heard it in recordings scientists made of the sound they produced when they blew air through crests constructed to mimic lambeosaurus’s. Some dinosaurs cooed to their mates like doves…turns out that even if dinosaurs didn’t sing, they danced. There is evidence in vigorous scrape marks found in 100-million year old Colorado sandstone. From the courting behavior of ostriches and grouse, scientists envision the dinosaur males coming together on courting grounds, bobbing and scratching, flaring their brilliant feathers and cooing. Imagine: huge animals, each weighing more than a dozen football teams, shaking the Earth for a chance at love. What the story of the dinosaurs tells me is that if the earth didn’t have music, it would waste no time inventing it. In birds, tantalizing evidence of birdsong is found in 67-million-year old fossils, marking the first know appearance of the syrinx. Now the whole Earth can chime, from deep in the sea to high in the atmosphere with the sounds of snapping shrimp, singing mice, roaring whales, moaning bears, clattering dragonflies, and a fish calling like a foghorn. Who could catalog the astonishing oeuvre of the Earth? And more songs are being created every year.

The Phoenix and the Turtle Let the bird of loudest lay On the sole Arabian tree Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever's end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather'd king; Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak'st With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st, 'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence: Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the Turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence. So they lov'd, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance and no space was seen 'Twixt this Turtle and his queen: But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine That the Turtle saw his right Flaming in the Phoenix' sight: Either was the other's mine. Property was thus appalled That the self was not the same; Single nature's double name Neither two nor one was called. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together, To themselves yet either neither, Simple were so well compounded; That it cried, "How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love has reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain." Whereupon it made this threne To the Phoenix and the Dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene: Beauty, truth, and rarity, Grace in all simplicity, Here enclos'd, in cinders lie. Death is now the Phoenix' nest, And the Turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest, Leaving no posterity: 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem but cannot be; Beauty brag but 'tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer

Sorrow walked in my clothes before I did. Flocks of shadows followed me. One night I looked at the stars I thought were gods until they disappeared. Some say I smashed my father’s idols and walked away. Or walked towards a desert of barren promises. Or promises that are hummingbirds hovering for a moment then drifting away. Even now, walking towards that mountain, sometimes I will watch my shadow sitting beneath a plane tree, casting dice, ignoring my steps. Some of you made me a founder but it was only that shadow. Some of you made me your father, but it was yourselves you were describing. You plant a tree, you dig a well, and it brings life, that’s all. Everything else is the heart’s mirage. Except what begins inside you. Except Sarah. When she stepped inside my dream the curtains shivered, whole mountains entered the room. It always seemed a question of which love to honor. The land I loved fills with fire. Who should we listen to? It’s true, He offered the world and I offered only myself. But I thought His words were coffins. I was frantic for any scrap of shade. Now everything is shade. Your old newspapers are taken up by the wind like pairs of broken wings. Each window, each door is a wound. One track erases another track. One bomb. One rock, one rubber bullet. What can I tell you? Where have you left your own morning of promises? You remember Isaac, maybe Ishmael, but not the love that led me there. Not Sarah. Just to hear the sound of her eyelids opening, or her plants pushing the air aside as they reach for the sun, twilight filling her fingers like fruit. This afternoon a flock of doves settled on my porch. Their silence took the shape of all I ever wanted to say. Today, the miracle you want aches inside the trees. Why believe anything except what is unbelievable? I never thought of it as a trial, not any of it. Now the leaves turn into messages that are simply impossible to read. The roots turn into roads as they break through the surface. How can I even know what I mean? Beneath the hem of night the rain falls asleep on the grass. We have to turn into each other. One heart inside the other’s heart. One love. One word. Inside us, our shadows will walk into water, the water will walk into the sky. Blind. Faithful. Inside us the music turns into a flock of birds. Theirs is a song whose promise we must believe the way the moon believes the earth, the fire believes the wood, that is, for no reason, for no reason at all.

Naturally, without intending to, I transitioned from these dreams in which I healed myself to some in which I cared for others: I am flying over the Champs-Élysées Avenue in Paris. Below me, thousands of people are marching, demanding world peace. They carry a cardboard dove a kilometer long with its wings and chest stained with blood. I begin to circle around them to get their attention. The people, astonished, point up at me, seeing me levitate. Then I ask them to join hands and form a chain so that they can fly with me. I gently take one hand and lift. The others, still holding hands, also rise up. I fly through the air, drawing beautiful figures with this human chain. The cardboard dove follows us. Its bloodstains have vanished. I wake up with the feeling of peace and joy that comes from good dreams. Three days later, while walking with my children along the Champs-Élysées Avenue, I saw an elderly gentleman under the trees near the obelisk whose entire body was covered by sparrows. He was sitting completely still on one of the metal benches put there by the city council with his hand outstretched, holding out a piece of cake. There were birds flitting around tearing off crumbs while others waited their turn, lovingly perched on his head, his shoulders, his legs. There were hundreds of birds. I was surprised to see tourists passing by without paying much attention to what I considered a miracle. Unable to contain my curiosity, I approached the old man. As soon as I got within a couple of meters of him, all the sparrows flew away to take refuge in the tree branches. “Excuse me,” I said, “how does this happen?” The gentleman answered me amiably. “I come here every year at this time of the season. The birds know me. They pass on the memory of my person through their generations. I make the cake that I offer. I know what they like and what ingredients to use. The arm and hand must be still and the wrist tilted so that they can clearly see the food. And then, when they come, stop thinking and love them very much. Would you like to try?” I asked my children to sit and wait on a nearby bench. I took the piece of cake, reached my hand out, and stood still. No sparrow dared approach. The kind old man stood beside me and took my hand. Immediately, some of the birds came and landed on my head, shoulders, and arm, while others pecked at the treat. The gentleman let go of me. Immediately the birds fled. He took my hand and asked me to take my son’s hand, and he another hand, so that my children formed a chain. We did. The birds returned and perched fearlessly on our bodies. Every time the old man let go of us, the sparrows fled. I realized that for the birds when their benefactor, full of goodness, took us by the hand, we became part of him. When he let go of us, we went back to being ourselves, frightening humans. I did not want to disrupt the work of this saintly man any longer. I offered him money. He absolutely would not accept. I never saw him again. Thanks to him, I understood certain passages of the Gospels: Jesus blesses children without uttering any prayer, just by putting his hands on them (Matthew 19:13–15). In Mark 16:18, the Messiah commands his apostles, “They shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” St. John the Apostle says mysteriously in his first epistle, 1.1, “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life.

He steps closer, dangling a delicate, gold chain from his fingers. “Happy birthday,” he says, dropping it in my outstretched palm. I glance down and run my finger across the cool metal of the attached charm—golden birds nestled, side by side. “I love it.” “They’re turtle doves. My mom used to tell me the story of the two turtle doves when I was a kid.” He reaches in and separates the charm, holding one of the doves in his hand. “Legend says, they’re a symbol of friendship. As long as you have one, and I have the other, then we’ll be friends forever. No matter what your father does.

Black dove, white dove Both so elegant and alike Both symbolize peace,and love Only difference is colour Colour does not differentiate anything, they will still remain birds They both sore so high in the sky The same direction,the same path You would rather look at the black dove because of it’s colour They both are birds, just different colours Colour, is just a word Yet a word that separates things so precious and make them seem so different Look beyond the colour, Tell me what you see, A Creation is what it will always be

The all-wise Father, knowing the benefit accruing to his sons through temptations, and being resolved to help them, gives them severe conflicts, casts them down to the depths, gives them bread and straw to teach them self-denial. He visits, raises, and proves them and gives them courage to preserve them against the risings of pride and deceptions and their irritation at their falls. Then do not fear temptation, brother, when you have such a counterweight as God's love for you. He is better served by you when you are tempted, for you suffer for him, but when you are consoled; your work is done for you.   Be sure to turn within yourself and seek God whenever anything happens that annoys you, like the dove that, when pursued by a bird of prey flies away and enters a safe place of refuge. You too should enter the refuge of your heart, where you will find God, and every adverse circumstance will be to you a messenger of grace, as this Letter declares. Then the words of Isaiah will be fulfilled in you. “And a man shall be as when one is hid from the wind, and hides himself from a storm, as rivers of water in drought, and the shadow of a rock that stands out in a desert land.

The Black Crow and the White Dove There was once a black crow who liked a certain song called “The Seven Little Crows,” which began, Crow, Crow, Crow, why do you caw? Except in this song, crows in stories are bullies and villains who everyone hates. This troubled the black crow, who would ask himself, How come it’s always the crows who are the bad guys? One day, a white dove who had lost her way met the black crow. She asked, “Where does this path go?” Then the white dove stared down at the ground, looking lonely. The black crow wondered what was wrong, and asked, “What’s the matter?” On the point of tears, the white dove said, “I’ve been searching for the path to happiness for a long, long time, but I still can’t find it anywhere. And I’m supposed to be the bird of peace, too …” The black crow was surprised to learn that even a bird as beautiful and as loved by everyone as the white dove nonetheless had deep problems to worry about. His answer was this: “But all paths are one connected path.” The white dove looked taken aback by this unexpected answer. But after a time, she smiled. “How about that? So the path I’ve been searching for all this time is the path I am already on.” In excellent spirits, the white dove flew off, up into the blue sky. Then the black crow, too, turned his head skyward, then flapped his wings vigorously, and away he flew. And the black crow looked no less perfect against the deep blue than the white dove.

Sonnet On hearing the Dies Irae in the Sistine Chapel Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove, Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love Than terrors of red flame and thundering. The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring: A bird at evening flying to its nest Tells me of One who had no place of rest: I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. Come rather on some autumn afternoon, When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, And the fields echo to the gleaner's song, Come when the splendid fulness of the moon Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves, And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.

Enoch stood. He carried with him a tablet and dove right into his rebuttal. “The testimony we have just heard from the Accuser has several half-truths in it, or as I would more accurately define them, lies.” Enoch read from the clay tablet in his hand. “Yahweh Elohim did not say that the couple could not touch the tree, he said that they could not eat of it. That is an exaggeration of the command to make the Creator appear excessive and overbearing. Secondly, it was not ‘the tree of knowledge’ that was forbidden, it was the ‘tree of the knowledge of good and evil.’ Yahweh Elohim was not forbidding knowledge to humanity, he was commanding reliance upon him as their ultimate authority to define good and evil. And we are right back to ultimate authorities that I spoke of earlier. Yahweh Elohim is the only ground of morality that can justify the Accuser’s own attack on morality.” Enoch paused for a moment in thought, then said, “It would not surprise me if one day, the serpent will have effectively convinced the masses with more of these kinds of distortions. I can imagine him twisting the ‘forbidden fruit’ into sex, and turning Yahweh Elohim into a cosmic killjoy prude who just wants to keep people from having fun.” Enoch launched into his conclusion, “No, the forbidden fruit is the essence of freedom. The Accuser would have us believe that boundaries of protection are actually restrictions of oppression; that rules repress human potential and laws take away freedom. He and his Watchers argue that freedom is the ability to do whatever one wants without an external code imposed upon them. Let each man be a law unto himself. Yet, look around the earth below to see the consequences of such ideas. Humans have achieved the self-determination from the knowledge of good and evil and in so doing have become slaves to their own lusts. Prisoners of their desire. They claim to be free, but they are everywhere in chains of their own making. Only in the boundaries of a loving Creator can humanity be free. Is a fish out of the water free? Is a bird out of the sky free? Only in fulfilling our god-given purpose can mankind experience the liberty of obedience. Disobedience is not enlightenment, it is pure blindness; it is not freedom, it is slavery.” Enoch stood for a moment as his words sank into his own soul. He realized that he had fought God’s purpose for himself so many years — that he prayed when he should have fought, fought when he should have prayed, and too often exhibited the ultimate sin of spiritual pride. Enoch fell to his knees and wept in repentance before Yahweh Elohim.

I thought love was this beautiful thing I couldn’t have, and didn’t have, but love isn’t like that. It’s ugly and it’s common and it’s every day. It’s not a rare bird of paradise. It’s like a pigeon, so common we don’t even pay attention to the fact that it’s really a dove with iridescent rainbow feathers.

…Beloved, Today I have sought you throughout my city and your strange city, where the buildings do not rejoice to the sun, like shells of fruit and celestial dwellings. And I walked with twilight tangled around my tongue, With a lagoon-like air and a cloak of danger. An aura of jasper saw me from its tower, As I walked searching for you among the green smell of the city’s horses, Among matrons with diapers and birds; Thinking about your mouth my eyes rested like diurnal doves on bitter grasses. And I searched for you then through the immediacy of my body. You could come to me then from the fervid event…

I didn't expect this day was like this. I should be there with u now but I can't n just d thing I can only do is praying god to keep u happy n healthy my love. Every year, I used to wish u a happy birthday at 12 am. But, I lost that chance today. Anyways I wish my sweet heart always be active like deer, lovable like dog, cute like our babies, clever like fox, daring like lion, pure like dove, handsome like harry potter, creative like dolphin, romantic like love birds, being with me like my heart. Ur gonna be such responsible n challenging husband in our life. I wish all the happiness, joy n love to u. We will travel with what we face struggles or sufferings whatever it may be, But only together I promise u. This promise is d the only one gift I can give u many more times throughout our life my dear platinum. Finally, my words are waiting to wish u a many more happy returns of the day

Sunny sweet morning. Butterfly flies with colorful wings. The melodious chirping of the dove bird. Asian pigeonwings (Clitoria ternatea) staring steadily. The intoxicating scent of wild white sandalwood. With the gentle touch of Catkin, the life of eighteen year old girl is exhilarating. Close conversation of the swan couple in the clear water lake. The charming freshness of living aloe vera. White cotton clouds blend into the bluey of the Autumn sky. The nectarine taste of the juicy kernel (core) of cane fruit. Fascinated by the extraordinary beauty of nature. Who doesn’t like it? However, sometimes nature is reckless or indifferent. The appearance of the storm at the moment. A warning signal! Surrounded by pitch black darkness. Dusty, stormy cold wind. The brutal rampage of the storm. The terrible power of ferocious thunderbolt. The spleen was surprised. Chases the fear of death. Infinite love for life. Nevertheless, man is helpless to nature. A strong desire to live. Pray to creator with a humble heart. Forgive, protect. Oh great Lord— give peace. Only you are our protector. The controller of this universe. Nature is calm. This is an eternal example of the immeasurable power of the great creator. In this carrying lifetime man is busy like in their own way. When the color of the sky changes— no one knows. Similarly, when the change happens in human mind— he himself does not know.

Indweller (He who resides in the heart and knows all the things of the mind and controls everything.) ————————————————————————— Sunny sweet morning. Butterfly flies with colorful wings. The melodious chirping of the dove bird. Asian pigeonwings (Clitoria ternatea) staring steadily. The intoxicating scent of wild white sandalwood. With the gentle touch of Catkin, the life of eighteen year old girl is exhilarating. Close conversation of the swan couple in the clear water lake. The charming freshness of living aloe vera. White cotton clouds blend into the bluey of the Autumn sky. The nectarine taste of the juicy kernel (core) of cane fruit. Fascinated by the extraordinary beauty of nature. Who doesn’t like it? However, sometimes nature is reckless or indifferent. The appearance of the storm at the moment. A warning signal! Surrounded by pitch black darkness. Dusty, stormy cold wind. The brutal rampage of the storm. The terrible power of ferocious thunderbolt. The spleen was startled. Chases the fear of death. Infinite love for life. Nevertheless, man is helpless to nature. A strong desire to live. Pray to creator with a humble heart. Forgive, protect. Oh great Lord— give peace. Only you are our protector. The controller of this universe. Nature is calm. This is an eternal example of the immeasurable power of the great creator. In this carrying lifetime man is busy like in their own way. When the color of the sky changes— no one knows. Similarly, when the change happens in human mind— he himself does not know.

One group of senior directors took an extravagant junket to Uruguay to kill doves. They especially loved killing doves. Why? It couldn’t have been the challenge. The group paid a Uruguayan farmer who had thousands of doves on his property to allow them to shoot there. One of the managers told me the air was so thick with doves that the hunting resembled a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds.

Some days the doves seemed to know what we needed to know. Some days you would run until you fell into the air. and the birds would scatter like clouds. What is it you were wanting to hold there in your empty hand? I think you were starting to play, even then, your flute, hearing the strange music of the doves, the notes floating feather-like into the future. And what does a single feather mean except the love we treasure, or a butterfly mean except the dreams we chase, the way those doves chased whatever called them from beyond the park, something beyond words, beyond the sky that gives away nothing except the longing to discover how love creates its own endless skies. — Richard Jackson, “Poem for Any,” Broken Horizons (Press 53, 2018)

The sun rose again. Nader woke up to the sounds of the laughing doves. He giggled as he listened to their lovey chirping. They talked nonstop with the loveliest voices ever. He closed his eyes again, trying to get back to sleep while listening to their lovely chirping. It only took him a minute to remember his task. He opened his eyes wide, astonished that he almost forgot all about his friend.

Hearts bring you happiness and love conveys endearment; white doves will surround you. Birds will sing a prayer to secure your soul, dreams, and treasures. A beautiful life is what makes the world go around in your space in time.” - Martha Perez