“
Sing swan, Spring swan then lets fly.
Follow the pretty bird across the sky.
Call swan, Fall swan, then lets rest.
Tucked in the branches of your quiet nest.
”
”
Shannon Messenger (Exile (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #2))
“
His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a swan's egg.
”
”
Hans Christian Andersen (The Ugly Duckling)
“
Consider a turkey that is fed every day. Every single feeding will firm up the bird’s belief that it is the general rule of life to be fed every day by friendly members of the human race “looking out for its best interests,” as a politician would say. On the afternoon of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, something unexpected will happen to the turkey. It will incur a revision of belief.*
”
”
Nassim Nicholas Taleb (The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable)
“
He worked night and day. He made a coat that would transform him; he would be more than a man; a winged creature, beautiful as light. All the birds brought him feathers. Even the eagle. Even the swan.
”
”
Catherine Fisher (Sapphique (Incarceron, #2))
“
Every morning
before the birds start
trilling me their stories,
I give birth to a new love
through my same old heart
when a lake’s placidity
finds life in the swans breath
Only for you...
From the poem 'Only For You
”
”
Munia Khan (To Evince the Blue)
“
Then came night
that was like falling water.
At times, for hours,
a bird spirit,
half buzzard, half swan,
just above the rushes
from which a snow-storm howls.
”
”
Peter Huchel
“
You mustn’t tell lies, you mustn’t steal, you mustn’t kill, and you mustn’t throw stones at birds. We all agree on that. Except maybe swans, because swans can actually be passive-aggressive little bastards.
”
”
Fredrik Backman (Anxious People)
“
L'union libre [Freedom of Love]"
My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire
”
”
André Breton (Poems of André Breton: A Bilingual Anthology)
“
Wings are of many kinds. Butterfly's wings, vulture's wings, eagle-wings, spread wings of white swans, dragonfly's serene wings, wings of albatross, lovely wings of humming birds, tiny wings of a fly or a bumble-bee-wings; and when they fly, they fly their best according to their ability of flying. We should not underestimate the size of those heavenly wings.
”
”
Munia Khan
“
you always feared god-born achilles
the most of all your fellows.
his divinity wove him taller,
better, quicker, stronger.
well here's a secret for you:
my father was a swan,
and the monthly blood on my thighs
is two-parts ichor.
you think achilles was of impressive descent?
touch me one more time.
maybe it's time we found out
what the daughter of the mightiest god
can do.
look to your kingdoms.
i am coming for them all.
”
”
Elisabeth Hewer (Wishing for Birds)
“
This species, the mute swan, became holy to Apollo. In remembrance of the death of the beloved Phaeton the bird is silent all its life until the very moment of its death, when it sings with terrible melancholy its strange and lovely goodbye, its swan song. In honour of Cygnus the young of all swans are called ‘cygnets’.
”
”
Stephen Fry (Mythos: The Greek Myths Retold (Stephen Fry's Great Mythology, #1))
“
Yeah,” I said. “What is that? A bird? "It’s the swan,” he said. “Wow. A school with a swan. Wow.”
“That swan is the spawn of Satan. Never get closer to it than we are now.
”
”
John Green (Looking for Alaska)
“
You could look at birds all your life without ever knowing what was a sparrow and what was a blackbird, but we all know a swan when we see it.
”
”
Joe Hill (NOS4A2)
“
This humble person has been alive long enough to see two generations of children grow up, and knows how rare it is for ordinary birds to give birth to a swan. The swan who goes on living in its parents' tree will die; this is why those who are beautiful and talented bear the burden of finding their own way into the world.
”
”
Arthur Golden
“
One single observation can invalidate a general statement derived from millennia of confirmatory sightings of millions of white swans. All you need is one single (and, I am told, quite ugly) black bird.*
”
”
Nassim Nicholas Taleb (The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable (Incerto, #2))
“
This guilt was an invisible but heavy albatross hanging around my neck. (That’s a reference to Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.) I wear that bird like Björk wore her swan dress. I wave from a red carpet leading to hell.
”
”
Myriam Gurba (Mean)
“
The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!--it is too beautiful to eat.
”
”
Amy Tan (The Joy Luck Club)
“
There are people,' he said, 'who give, and there are people who take. There are people who create, people who destroy, and people who don't do anything and drive the other two kinds crazy. It's born in you, whether you give or take, and that's the way you are. Ravens bring things to people. We're like that. It's our nature. We don't like it. We'd much rather be eagles, or swans, or even one of those moronic robins, but we're ravens and there you are. Ravens don't feel right without somebody to bring things to, and when we do find somebody we realize what a silly business it was in the first place." He made a sound between a chuckle and a cough. "Ravens are pretty neurotic birds. We're closer to people than any other bird, and we're bound to them all our lives, but we don't have to like them. You think we brought Elijah food because we liked him? He was an old man with a dirty beard.
”
”
Peter S. Beagle (A Fine and Private Place)
“
Fairy tales are about trouble, about getting into and out of it, and trouble seems to be a necessary stage on the route to becoming. All the magic and glass mountains and pearls the size of houses and princesses beautiful as the day and talking birds and part-time serpents are distractions from the core of most of the stories, the struggle to survive against adversaries, to find your place in the world, and to come into your own.
Fairy tales are almost always the stories of the powerless, of youngest sons, abandoned children, orphans, of humans transformed into birds and beasts or otherwise enchanted away from their own lives and selves. Even princesses are chattels to be disowned by fathers, punished by step-mothers, or claimed by princes, though they often assert themselves in between and are rarely as passive as the cartoon versions. Fairy tales are children's stories not in wh they were made for but in their focus on the early stages of life, when others have power over you and you have power over no one.
In them, power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness -- from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sewn among the meek is harvested in crisis...
In Hans Christian Andersen's retelling of the old Nordic tale that begins with a stepmother, "The Wild Swans," the banished sister can only disenchant her eleven brothers -- who are swans all day look but turn human at night -- by gathering stinging nettles barehanded from churchyard graves, making them into flax, spinning them and knitting eleven long-sleeved shirts while remaining silent the whole time. If she speaks, they'll remain birds forever. In her silence, she cannot protest the crimes she accused of and nearly burned as a witch.
Hauled off to a pyre as she knits the last of the shirts, she is rescued by the swans, who fly in at the last moment. As they swoop down, she throws the nettle shirts over them so that they turn into men again, all but the youngest brother, whose shirt is missing a sleeve so that he's left with one arm and one wing, eternally a swan-man. Why shirts made of graveyard nettles by bleeding fingers and silence should disenchant men turned into birds by their step-mother is a question the story doesn't need to answer. It just needs to give us compelling images of exile, loneliness, affection, and metamorphosis -- and of a heroine who nearly dies of being unable to tell her own story.
”
”
Rebecca Solnit (The Faraway Nearby)
“
The swan is also a liminal bird, able to live in two worlds, land and water, or matter and spirit.
”
”
Wendy Doniger (Dreams, Illusion, and Other Realities)
“
No offense to the Black Swan. The name they chose for you is not without its significance. But we think it’s high time for people to see you as more than an experiment. More than a survivor. More than a girl left to fend for herself in a world where she didn’t truly belong. You’re a leader now, Miss Foster. Not a defenseless little bird. And you’re part of a team, not struggling alone. So we wanted you to show our world—and your enemies—that you rule your pack, and have the claws and teeth to take anyone on.
”
”
Shannon Messenger (Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #8))
“
Love The Wild Swan
I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting
Hash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."
--This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.
”
”
Robinson Jeffers
“
Medieval banquets show people eating all kinds of foods that are no longer eaten. Birds especially featured. Eagles, herons, peacocks, sparrows, larks, finches, swans, and almost all other feathered creatures were widely consumed. This wasn’t so much because swans and other birds were fantastically delicious—they weren’t; that’s why we don’t eat them now—but rather because other, better meats weren’t available.
”
”
Bill Bryson (At Home: A Short History of Private Life)
“
He gestured at her mask. "A swan. It suits you."
"I didn't have many choices. It was either a swan or a peacock."
The prince leaned closer, speaking softly. "Swans were my mother's favorite birds. She used to tell me that once they fall in love, they stay in love forever.
”
”
Elizabeth Lim (So This is Love)
“
Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing
The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worst suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretense
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slam of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meaning are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mothers was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look - my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
”
”
Margaret Atwood (Morning In The Burned House: Poems)
“
You are quarter ghost on your mother’s side.
Your heart is a flayed peach in a bone box.
Your hair comes away in clumps like cheap fabric wet.
A reflecting pool gathers around your altar
of plywood sub flooring and split wooden slats.
You are rag doll prone. You are contort,
angle and arc. Here you rot. Here
you are a greening abdomen, slipping skin,
flesh fly, carrion beetles.
This is where bullets take shelter,
where scythes find their function, breath loses
its place on the page. This is where the page is torn
out of every book before chapter’s close,
this is slippage, this is a shroud of neglect
pulled over the body, this
is your chance to escape.
Little wraith,
bend light around your skin until it colors you clear,
disappear like silica in a kiln, become
glass and glass beads, become
the staggered whir of an exhaust fan:
something only noticed
when gone. Become
an origami swan. Fold yourself smaller
than ever before. Become less. More
in some ways but less
in the way a famine is less. They will
forgive you for not being satisfied
with fitting in their hands.
They will forgive you
for dying to be
a bird diminutive enough
to fit in a mouth and not be crushed.
”
”
Jamaal May
“
To be born in a duck's nest in a farmyard is of no consequence to a bird if it is hatched from a swan's egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the newcomer and stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.
”
”
Hans Christian Andersen (Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales First Series)
“
First, it is an outlier, as it lies outside the realm of regular expectations, because nothing in the past can convincingly point to its possibility. Second, it carries an extreme impact (unlike the bird). Third, in spite of its outlier status, human nature makes us concoct explanations for its occurrence after the fact, making it explainable and predictable.
”
”
Nassim Nicholas Taleb (The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable (Incerto, #2))
“
RIDE A WHITE SWAN"
"Ride it on out like a bird in the skyway,
Ride it on out like you were a bird,
Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam,
Ride it all out like you were a bird.
Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days
Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown
Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,
Wear your hair long,babe,you can't go wrong.
Catch a bright star and place it on your forehead,
Say a few spells and baby,there you go,
Take a black cat and sit it on your shoulder,
And in the morning you'll know all you know.
Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days
Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown
Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,
Wear your hair long, babe ,you can't go wrong.
Da di di da, da di di da
”
”
Marc Bolan (Marc Bolan Lyric Book)
“
There were rockets like a flock of scintillating birds singing with sweet voices. There were green trees with trunks of dark smoke: their leaves opened like a whole spring unfolding in a moment, and their shining branches dropped glowing flowers down upon the hobbits, disappearing with a sweet scent just before their touched their upturned faces. There were fountains of butterflies that flew glittering into the trees; there were pillars of coloured fires that rose and turned into eagles, or sailing ships, or a phalanx of flying swans; there was a red thunderstorm and a shower of yellow rain; there was a forest of silver spears that sprang suddenly into the air with a yell like an embattled army, and and came down again into the Water with a hiss like a hundred hot snakes.
”
”
J.R.R. Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring (The Lord of the Rings, #1))
“
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling
”
”
Pablo Neruda
“
A scorpion sat on the shores of a river one day, needing to get to the other side, but the river was too wide, and there were not enough stones to jump across. He begged the various water birds—mallards and geese and herons—if he could catch a ride, but they pragmatically turned him down, knowing too well his cunning and his sting. He caught sight of the lovely swan making her way down the river and charmingly pleaded to her attributes. “Please, beautiful Swan, take me across the river. I couldn’t imagine harming something as beautiful as you, and it is not in my interest to do so. I simply want to get to the other side of the river.” The swan hesitated, but the scorpion was so charming and convincing. He was close enough to sting her right now, and yet he did not do it. What could go wrong? The trip across the river would take only a few minutes. She agreed to help him. As they traversed the river, the scorpion expressed his gratitude and continued to offer his compliments about her loveliness and kindness compared to all of the other negligent river birds. As they arrived at the other riverbank, he prepared to jump off. And right before he jumped off of her back, he lifted his tail and stung her. Crying and injured, the swan couldn’t understand why he’d done this, after all the promises, all the flattery, the logical explanations. “Why did you sting me?” she asked. He looked at her from the river bank and said, “I’m a scorpion. It’s who I am.” ♦♦♦
”
”
Ramani Durvasula (Should I Stay or Should I Go?: Surviving a Relationship with a Narcissist)
“
The Bird Park.” We spent more time than I had expected to there — nearly an hour. We walked across quaint bridges, saw flamingos and macaws and toucans, and a host of others. Ellen bought the appropriate bags of nourishment to feed the ducks, swans, and various colorful larger birds, some from South America, who would eat right out of her hand. She loved it, and the aviary was beautiful, the water and trees and birds. Secretly, however, I was a bit disappointed. They’d scaled it back during the war, and maybe if you’d never been through it back then it seemed wonderful. But if you had, it was a reminder that winning the war had many price tags attached to it.
”
”
Bobby Underwood (Nightside (Nostalgia Crime, #3))
“
Every young man starting life ought to know how to cope with an angry swan, so I will briefly relate the proper procedure. You begin by picking up the raincoat which somebody has dropped; and then, judging the distance to a nicety, you simply shove the raincoat over the bird’s head; and, taking the boat-hook which you have prudently brought with you, you insert it underneath the swan and heave. The swan goes into a bush and starts trying to unscramble itself; and you saunter back to your boat, taking with you any friends who may happen at the moment to be sitting on roofs in the vicinity. That was Jeeves’s method, and I cannot see how it could have been improved upon.
”
”
P.G. Wodehouse (Very Good, Jeeves! (Jeeves, #4))
“
I am mad with joy.--At least I think it's joy. Strangers have come, and it's a whole new game. I kiss the ice on the frozen creeks, I press my ear to it, honoring the water that rattles below, for by water they came: the icebergs parted as if gently pushed back by enormous hands, and the ship sailed through, sea-eager, foamy-necked, white sails, riding the swan-road, flying like a bird! O happy Grendel! Fifteen glorious heroes, proud in their battle dress, fat as cows!
”
”
John Gardner
“
legend of the swan, the one that says that the bird is mute for her entire life, until the moment she’s about to die, and then she sings the most beautiful melody in the whole universe, so gorgeous that just hearing it can crack you in half.
”
”
Jodi Picoult (Mad Honey)
“
What kind of bird do you think these feathers come from?' she asked.
'I don't know. A swan?'
'You had better stop wearing those wings, then.
A swan might fall in love with you. And as you
probably know, swans mate for life.'
'You are a funny one, Rose.
”
”
Heather O'Neill (The Lonely Hearts Hotel)
“
She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of love. Romantic love. Soulmate love. Birds soaring and swans paddling. Trees rustling and flowers blooming. The sound of his hand stroking her tear-stained cheek. And the sound of his heartbeat in sync with hers.
”
”
Nicole Archer (Head-Tripped (Ad Agency, #2))
“
That day and night, the bleeding and the screaming, had knocked something askew for Esme, like a picture swinging crooked on a wall. She loved the life she lived with her mother. It was beautiful. It was, she sometimes thought, a sweet emulation of the fairy tales they cherished in their lovely, gold-edged books. They sewed their own clothes from bolts of velvet and silk, ate all their meals as picnics, indoors or out, and danced on the rooftop, cutting passageways through the fog with their bodies. They embroidered tapestries of their own design, wove endless melodies on their violins, charted the course of the moon each month, and went to the theater and the ballet as often as they liked--every night last week to see Swan Lake again and again. Esme herself could dance like a faerie, climb trees like a squirrel, and sit so still in the park that birds would come to perch on her. Her mother had taught her all that, and for years it had been enough. But she wasn't a little girl anymore, and she had begun to catch hints and glints of another world outside her pretty little life, one filled with spice and poetry and strangers.
”
”
Laini Taylor (Lips Touch: Three Times)
“
It was a dead swan. Its body lay contorted on the beach like an abandoned lover. I looked at the bird for a long time. There was no blood on its feathers, no sight of gunshot. Most likely, a late migrant from the north slapped silly by a ravenous Great Salt Lake. The swan may have drowned. I knelt beside the bird, took off my deerskin gloves, and began smoothing feathers. Its body was still limp—the swan had not been dead long. I lifted both wings out from under its belly and spread them on the sand. Untangling the long neck which was wrapped around itself was more difficult, but finally I was able to straighten it, resting the swan’s chin flat against the shore. The small dark eyes had sunk behind the yellow lores. It was a whistling swan. I looked for two black stones, found them, and placed them over the eyes like coins. They held. And, using my own saliva as my mother and grandmother had done to wash my face, I washed the swan’s black bill and feet until they shone like patent leather. I have no idea of the amount of time that passed in the preparation of the swan. What I remember most is lying next to its body and imagining the great white bird in flight. I imagined the great heart that propelled the bird forward day after day, night after night. Imagined the deep breaths taken as it lifted from the arctic tundra, the camaraderie within the flock. I imagined the stars seen and recognized on clear autumn nights as they navigated south. Imagined their silhouettes passing in front of the full face of the harvest moon. And I imagined the shimmering Great Salt Lake calling the swans down like a mother, the suddenness of the storm, the anguish of its separation. And I tried to listen to the stillness of its body. At dusk, I left the swan like a crucifix on the sand. I did not look back.
”
”
Terry Tempest Williams (Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place)
“
Suddenly the semipalmated plovers startle, then lift, swirling off in one smooth oscillation. They bank out over the water, stream up over the horizon, then arch backward in a long graceful curve, as if they were being sculpted by the wind. They return as abruptly as they left, falling out of the sky like drops of rain.~~The Black Swan
”
”
Ann Batterson
“
This druid feeling I get in the woods’s so thrilling it makes me want to crap, so I dug a hole with a flat stone inside a clump of mitten-leafed shrubs. I pulled down my cacks and squatted. It’s ace shitting outside like a caveman. Let go, thud, subtle crinkle on dry leaves. Squatted craps come out smoother than craps in bogs. Crap’s peatier and steamier in open air, too. (My one fear is bluebottles flying up my arsehole and laying eggs in my lower intestine. Larvae’d hatch and get to my brain. My cousin Hugo told me it actually happened to an American kid called Akron Ohio.) “Am I normal,” I said aloud just to hear my voice, “talking to myself in a wood like this?” A bird so near it might’ve perched on a curl of my ear musicked a flute in a jar. I quivered to own such an unownable thing. If I could’ve climbed into that moment, that jar, and never ever left, I would’ve done. But my squatting calves were aching, so I moved. The unownable bird took fright and vanished down its tunnel of twigs and nows.
”
”
David Mitchell (Black Swan Green)
“
The Hunchback in the Park
The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water
From the opening of the garden lock
That lets the trees and water enter
Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark
Eating bread from a newspaper
Drinking water from the chained cup
That the children filled with gravel
In the fountain basin where I sailed my ship
Slept at night in a dog kennel
But nobody chained him up.
Like the park birds he came early
Like the water he sat down
And Mister they called Hey mister
The truant boys from the town
Running when he had heard them clearly
On out of sound
Past lake and rockery
Laughing when he shook his paper
Hunchbacked in mockery
Through the loud zoo of the willow groves
Dodging the park keeper
With his stick that picked up leaves.
And the old dog sleeper
Alone between nurses and swans
While the boys among willows
Made the tigers jump out of their eyes
To roar on the rockery stones
And the groves were blue with sailors
Made all day until bell time
A woman figure without fault
Straight as a young elm
Straight and tall from his crooked bones
That she might stand in the night
After the locks and chains
All night in the unmade park
After the railings and shrubberies
The birds the grass the trees the lake
And the wild boys innocent as strawberries
Had followed the hunchback
To his kennel in the dark.
”
”
Dylan Thomas
“
I will fly away to them, to the royal birds, and they will beat me, because I, that am so ugly, dare to come near them. But it is all the same. Better to be killed by them than to be pursued by ducks, and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the poultry yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And it flew out into the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans; these looked at it, and came sailing down upon it with outspread wings. "Kill me!" said the poor creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting nothing but death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld its own image; and, lo! it was no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and hateful to look at, but a—swan!
”
”
Hamilton Wright Mabie (Fairy Tales Every Child Should Know)
“
Except maybe swans, because swans can actually be passive-aggressive little bastards. But apart from swans, you mustn’t throw stones at birds. And you mustn’t tell lies. Unless… well, sometimes you have to, of course, like when your children ask: “Why does it smell like chocolate in here? ARE YOU EATING CHOCOLATE?” But you definitely mustn’t steal or kill, we can agree on that.
”
”
Fredrik Backman (Anxious People)
“
I want to hear a million robins making a frightful racket. I sort of like birds." "All women are birds," he ventured. "What kind am I?"—quick and eager. "A swallow, I think, and sometimes a bird of paradise. Most girls are sparrows, of course—see that row of nurse-maids over there? They're sparrows—or are they magpies? And of course you've met canary girls—and robin girls." "And swan girls and parrot girls. All grown women are hawks, I think, or owls." "What am I—a buzzard?" She laughed and shook her head. "Oh, no, you're not a bird at all, do you think? You're a Russian wolfhound." Anthony remembered that they were white and always looked unnaturally hungry. But then they were usually photographed with dukes and princesses, so he was properly flattered. "Dick's
”
”
F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Beautiful and Damned)
“
There are simply some things that all normal people understand that you must never under any circumstances do. You mustn’t tell lies, you mustn’t steal, you mustn’t kill, and you mustn’t throw stones at birds. We all agree on that. Except maybe swans, because swans can actually be passive-aggressive little bastards. But apart from swans, you mustn’t throw stones at birds. And you mustn’t tell lies. Unless… well, sometimes you have to, of course, like when your children ask: “Why does it smell like chocolate in here? ARE YOU EATING CHOCOLATE?” But you definitely mustn’t steal or kill, we can agree on that. Well, you mustn’t kill people, anyway. And most of the time you mustn’t even kill swans, even if they are bastards, but you’re allowed to kill animals if they’ve got horns and are standing in the forest. Or if they’re bacon. But you must never kill people.
”
”
Fredrik Backman (Anxious People)
“
Last season Penelope was persuaded that a live bird would make an altogether unique accessory.” Was she bamming him? “A bird.” “A swan, in fact.” She looked quite grave. If, in fact, she was playing some type of silly game with him, she hid it well. But then one such as she had innumerable occasions to learn to hide her thoughts and feelings. It was almost a requirement, in fact. “I never noticed Lady Penelope with a swan.” She glanced swiftly up at him, and he saw the corner of her lips curve. Just slightly, and then it was gone. “Yes, well, it was only for a week. As it turns out, swans hiss—and bite.” “Lady Penelope was bitten by a swan?” “No. Actually, I was.” His brows knit at that bit of information, imagining that fair skin darkening with a bruise. He didn’t like the image. How often was Miss Greaves hurt whilst carrying out her duties as companion to Lady Penelope?
”
”
Elizabeth Hoyt (Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane, #6))
“
Across the lilies was a pond, its waters a vibrant green from reflecting the trees around it. In the center of the pond swam two elegant white birds, their long necks curved toward one another.
"Swans!" Cinderella breathed. She leaned against the bridge's rail and gazed at the pair of swans gliding across the pond.
At her side, Charles rested his elbows on the bridge. "They're here every evening before sundown. Sometimes, during sunset, you can see the light dapple their feathers. Look."
Rays of golden light stroked the swans' wings, which shimmered against the still waters.
"I used to come here whenever I could to watch them," said Prince Charles. "I'm certain it's been the very same pair of swans for years. When I saw them, I'd feel a little less lonely."
"How happy they look," mused Cinderella, watching as the swans took flight, their feet skidding across the pond before they soared into the sky. "Free to come and go as they please.
”
”
Elizabeth Lim (So This is Love)
“
* THE OLD WOMAN remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!—it is too beautiful to eat. Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of li wide, stretching their necks toward America. On her journey she cooed to the swan: “In America I will have a daughter just like me. But over there nobody will say her worth is measured by the loudness of her husband’s belch. Over there nobody will look down on her, because I will make her speak only perfect American English. And over there she will always be too full to swallow any sorrow! She will know my meaning, because I will give her this swan—a creature that became more than what was hoped for.” But when she arrived in the new country, the immigration officials pulled her swan away from her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory. And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind. Now the woman was old. And she had a daughter who grew up speaking only English and swallowing more Coca-Cola than sorrow. For a long time now the woman had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her, “This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions.” *
”
”
Amy Tan (The Joy Luck Club)
“
You seem to
think me inferior to the swans in prophecy. They sing before too, but when
they realize that they must die they sing most and most beautifully, as
85 they rejoice that they are about to depart to join the god whose servants
they are. But men, because of their own fear of death, tell lies about the
swans and say that they lament their death and sing in sorrow. They do
not reflect that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold or suffers in any
other way, neither the nightingale nor the swallow nor the hoopoe, though
they do say that these sing laments when in pain. Nor do the swans, but
b I believe that as they belong to Apollo, they are prophetic, have knowledge
of the future and sing of the blessings of the underworld, sing and rejoice
on that day beyond what they did before. As I believe myself to be a
fellow servant with the swans and dedicated to the same god, and have
received from my master a gift of prophecy not inferior to theirs, I am no
more despondent than they on leaving life.
”
”
Plato (Phaedo)
“
The air was cool and shadowed in the great oak. Alex took a deep breath, trying to taste its greenness. It did have a taste, an elusive sweetness. Eyes half-closed, legs dangling, she felt the solid trunk against her back, the pull of the earth on her legs. Despite her presence, birds flew in and out of the tree, and her mind went with them, seeking the course of their secret journeys. She was on the edge of knowing how it felt to be one of them when the thud of a horse's hooves brought her back to earth.
”
”
Celeste De Blasis (Wild Swan (Wild Swan Trilogy, #1))
“
All summers take me back to the sea. There in the long eelgrass, like birds' eggs waiting to be hatched, my brothers and sister and I sit, grasses higher than our heads, arms and legs like thicker versions of the grass waving in the wind, looking up at the blue sky. My mother is gathering food for dinner: clams and mussels and the sharply salty greens that grow by the shore. It is warm enough to lie here in the little silty puddles like bathwater left in the tub after the plug has been pulled. It is the beginning of July and we have two months to live out the long, nurturing days, watching the geese and the saltwater swans and the tides as they are today, slipping out, out, out as the moon pulls the other three seasons far away wherever it takes things. Out past the planets, far away from Uranus and the edge of our solar system, into the brilliantly lit dark where the things we don't know about yet reside. Out past my childhood, out past the ghosts, out past the breakwater of the stars. Like the silvery lace curtains of my bedroom being drawn from my window, letting in light, so the moon gently pulls back the layers of the year, leaving the best part open and free. So summer comes to me.
”
”
Polly Horvath (My One Hundred Adventures (My One Hundred Adventures, #1))
“
Коли в землю солдаты всадили — штык,
Коли красною тряпкой затмили — Лик*,
Коли Бог под ударами — глух и нем,
Коль на Пасху народ не пустили в Кремль —
Надо бражникам старым засесть за холст,
Рыбам — петь, бабам — умствовать, птицам — ползть,
Конь на всаднике должен скакать верхом,
Новорожденных надо поить вином**,
Реки — жечь, мертвецов выносить — в окно,
Солнце красное в полночь всходить должно,
Имя суженой должен забыть жених…
Государыням нужно любить — простых***.
3-ий день Пасхи 1918
*Красный флаг, к<отор>ым завесили лик Николая Чудотворца. Продолжение — известно (примеч. М. Цветаевой).↵
**Поили: г<оспо>жу де Жанлис. В Бургундии. Называлось «la miaulée». И жила, кажется, до 90-ста лет. Но был ужасная лицемерка (примеч. М. Цветаевой).↵
***Любили (примеч. М. Цветаевой).↵
Now that the troops stick their bayonets - in the earth,
that they wrap the Saint's Face - in a scarlet cloth,
That, in face of these blows, God is - deaf and dumb,
That at Easter the Kremlin admits no one -
We shall soon see old revellers ply the loom,
Fishes - sing, old wives - meditate, birds - creep, soon
see the steed mount its rider and race away,
see them start feeding wine to the new-born babe,
Rivers - burn, windows - open to pass the dead,
on the stroke of midnight - the sun rise, blood-red,
the fiancé forget his beloved's name...
and tsarinas - love commoners once again*.
Third day of Easter, 1918
*They did love them (M.S.)
”
”
Marina Tsvetaeva (The Demesne of the Swans)
“
The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!—it is too beautiful to eat.
Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of li wide, stretching their necks toward America. On her journey she cooed to the swan: “In America I will have a daughter just like me. But over there nobody will say her worth is measured by the loudness of her husband’s belch. Over there nobody will look down on her, because I will make her speak only perfect American English. And over there she will always be too full to swallow any sorrow! She will know my meaning, because I will give her this swan—a creature that became more than what was hoped for.”
But when she arrived in the new country, the immigration officials pulled her swan away from her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory. And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind.
Now the woman was old. And she had a daughter who grew up speaking only English and swallowing more Coca-Cola than sorrow. For a long time now the woman had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her, “This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions.” And she waited year after year, for the day she could tell her daughter this in perfect American English.
”
”
Amy Tan (The Joy Luck Club)
“
Swan had used them to send Sophie messages. He fished out the tiny velvet pouch and Sophie caught herself clutching her allergy remedy necklace. She still kept the silver moonlark pin that Calla had given her attached to the cord—a reminder of the friend she’d lost, and a symbol of the role she needed to figure out how to play. “Looks like we’re good,” Sandor said, handing her the small boobrie pin—a strange black bird with bright yellow tail feathers. “Can’t imagine that means anything important.” Sophie couldn’t either. Especially since the Black Swan had been annoyingly silent. No notes. No clues. No answers during their brief meetings. Apparently they were “regrouping.” And it was taking forever. At least the Council was doing something—setting up goblin patrols and trying to arrange an ogre Peace Summit. The Black Swan should at least be . . . Actually, Sophie didn’t know what they should be doing. That was the problem with having her friend join the enemy. “There you are!” a familiar voice said behind her. “I was starting to think you’d ditched us.” The deep, crisp accent was instantly recognizable. And yet, the teasing words made Sophie wish she’d turn and find a different boy. Fitz looked as cute as ever in his red Level Five uniform, but his perfect smile didn’t reach his trademark teal eyes. The recent revelations had been a huge blow for all of her friends, but Fitz had taken it the hardest. Both his brother and his best friend had run off with the Neverseen. Alvar’s betrayal had made Fitz wary—made him doubt every memory. But Keefe’s?
”
”
Shannon Messenger (Lodestar (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #5))
“
There were rockets like a flight of scintillating birds singing with sweet voices. There were green trees with trunks of dark smoke: their leaves opened like a whole spring unfolding in a moment, and their shining branches dropped glowing flowers down upon the astonished hobbits, disappearing with a sweet scent just before they touched their upturned faces. There were fountains of butterflies that flew glittering into the trees; there were pillars of coloured fires that rose and turned into eagles, or sailing ships, or a phalanx of flying swans; there was a red thunderstorm and a shower of yellow rain; there was a forest of silver spears that sprang suddenly into the air with a yell like an embattled army, and came down again into the Water with a hiss like a hundred hot snakes.
”
”
J.R.R. Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring (The Lord of the Rings, #1))
“
~We were here~
We were here years ago
Dusk swept away the white day
departing monotonous sun to sleep
“You came out of abyss or on High?”
The scent of her willingness breasts
I breathe !
Eyes closed !
Naked bodies sailed in colour,
sound and smell
her swan-like arms coiled
The shadowy light of lamp
the flamboyant bits of dying coal sighed in air
Blood depurated the tawny flesh of bodies
Beside on a table
words scattered like flock of birds
grief, dejection and melancholy
b r o k e n bones of free verse
In contrivance of our sweetest submission
words rupture; secret message deciphered
unrhymed metamorphosed to rhymes
they read our skins like first love poem
besotted in warm delighted air
flying high as kite
You were coaxed to sing in flow; I danced wobbly
Wary sky above the roof ceased
in our devout brittle embrace.
”
”
Satbir Singh Noor
“
Night shift. Jamey raises his arm, and a hundred arms are raised. He smiles, with thousands of teeth. Jamey thinks of Narcissus bending to the pool. He thinks of how a swan on a calm lake is one with its reflection, and then lifting off, the bird divides from its self, and both parts becomes smaller and smaller. Division is more interesting than duplication, and an ax is a fascinating tool. It makes a fallen tree into wood that will keep your family warm. It does more than separate a whole into pieces; it changes the spirit of the thing, its use. He thinks about Elise checking her compact, and how he looks over her shoulder to catch her outlined eye in the mirror. Her eye, separated from the rest of her, floating. Normally he doesn't let his mind split into pieces, because it frightens him, but he's in a container here. He has so much time to think on the night shift.
”
”
Jardine Libaire (White Fur)
“
The next day Phipps wrote about Göring’s open house in his diary. “The whole proceedings were so strange as at times to convey a feeling of unreality,” he wrote, but the episode had provided him a valuable if unsettling insight into the nature of Nazi rule. “The chief impression was that of the most pathetic naïveté of General Göring, who showed us his toys like a big, fat, spoilt child: his primeval woods, his bison and birds, his shooting-box and lake and bathing beach, his blond ‘private secretary,’ his wife’s mausoleum and swans and sarsen stones.… And then I remembered there were other toys, less innocent though winged, and these might some day be launched on their murderous mission in the same childlike spirit and with the same childlike glee.” CHAPTER 43 A Pygmy Speaks Wherever Martha and her father now went they heard rumors and speculation that the collapse of Hitler’s regime might be imminent. With
”
”
Erik Larson (In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin)
“
XIII.
I Have Gone Marking"
I have gone marking the atlas of your body
with crosses of fire.
My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide.
In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.
Stories to tell you on the shore of evening,
sad and gentle doll, so that you should not be sad.
A swan, a tree, something far away and happy.
The season of grapes, the ripe and fruitful season.
I who lived in a harbour from which I loved you.
The solitude crossed with dream and with silence.
Penned up between the sea and sadness.
Soundless, delirious, between two motionless gondoliers.
Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.
Sing, burn, flee, like a belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.
”
”
Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)
“
Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry's scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.
A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock's and gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged bundle.
A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet, then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden beak and a black beady eye.
The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry's cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.
"That's a phoenix...." said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.
"Fawkes?" Harry breathed, and he felt the bird's golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.
”
”
J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Harry Potter, #2))
“
Before them were soups and stews filled with various tubers, roasted venison, long hot loaves of sourdough bread, and rows of honeycakes dripped with raspberry preserve. In a bed of greens lay filleted trout garnished with parsley, and on the side, pickled eel stared forlornly at an urn of cheese, as if hoping to somehow escape back into a river. A swan sat on each table, surrounded by a flock of stuffed partridges, geese, and ducks. Mushrooms were everywhere: broiled in juicy strips, placed atop a bird’s head like a bonnet, or carved in the shape of castles amid moats of gravy. An incredible variety was on display, from puffy white mushrooms the size of Eragon’s fist, to ones he could have mistaken for gnarled bark, to delicate toadstools sliced neatly in half to showcase their blue flesh. Then the centerpiece of the feast was revealed: a gigantic roasted boar, glistening with sauce. At least Eragon thought it was a boar, for the carcass was as large as Snowfire and took six dwarves to carry. The tusks were longer than his forearms, the snout as wide as his head. And the smell, it overwhelmed all others in pungent waves that made his eyes water from their strength.
”
”
Christopher Paolini (Eldest (Inheritance, #2))
“
When's the last time you called them?"
"I haven't. But they needed to rescue us just the other day. From the bison."
"They rescued you from -?" Reyna shook her head. " I don't want to know. So when else have they rescued you?"
"Well, never, but I'm supposed to do this on my own. They told me where to find Mjölnir, right after they gave me my goats."
"Goats? No, again, I don't want to know." She paused. "Wait, actually, I do. You get goats?"
"Magic battle goats."
"Of course. So you get magic goats, a magic necklace, a magic hammer, a magic shield. You're like the favourite child who gets all the best Christmas gifts. What does Freya have?"
"Um, a magic cloak."
She waved that off. "Got it already. What else?"
"There's the boar, Hildisvini."
"Who? What?"
"Hildisvini. He's a boar. It's a wild pig -"
"I know what a boar is. That's almost as bad as goats. What else?"
"Um ... swans, I think?"
"Swans? Great. You get killer goats, and I get pretty birds."
"Have you ever met a swan? They're vicious. I think I'd rather take my chances with a goat."
Her eyes lit up. "Really? Now that would be cool. Everyone would think they were just pretty birds and then they attack. Stealth swans.
”
”
K.L. Armstrong (Odin's Ravens (The Blackwell Pages, #2))
“
The city had changed beyond recognition. Wrecking balls and bulldozers had leveled the old buildings to rubble. The dust of construction hung permanently over the streets. Gated mansions reached up to the northern foothills, while slums fanned out from the city’s southern limits.
I feared an aged that had lost its heart, and I was terrified at the thought of so many useless hands. Our traditions were our pacifiers and we put ourselves to sleep with the lullaby of a once-great civilation and culture. Ours was the land of poetry flowers, and nightingales—and poets searching for rhymes in history’s junkyards. The lottery was our faith and greed our fortune. Our intellectuals were sniffing cocaine and delivering lectures in the back rooms of dark cafés. We bought plastic roses and decorated our lawns and courtyards with plaster swans. We saw the future in neon lights. We had pizza shops, supermarkets, and bowling alleys. We had trafric jams, skyscrapers, and air thick with noise and pollution. We had illiterate villagers who came to the capital with scraps of paper in their hands, begging for someone to show them the way to this medical clinic or that government officee. the streets of Tehran were full of Mustangs and Chevys bought at three times the price they sold for back in America, and still our oil wasn’t our own. Still our country wasn’t our own.
”
”
Jasmin Darznik (Song of a Captive Bird)
“
THE OLD WOMAN remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. This bird, boasted the market vendor, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose, and now look!—it is too beautiful to eat. Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of li wide, stretching their necks toward America. On her journey she cooed to the swan: “In America I will have a daughter just like me. But over there nobody will say her worth is measured by the loudness of her husband’s belch. Over there nobody will look down on her, because I will make her speak only perfect American English. And over there she will always be too full to swallow any sorrow! She will know my meaning, because I will give her this swan—a creature that became more than what was hoped for.” But when she arrived in the new country, the immigration officials pulled her swan away from her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory. And then she had to fill out so many forms she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind. Now the woman was old. And she had a daughter who grew up speaking only English and swallowing more Coca-Cola than sorrow. For a long time now the woman had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her, “This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions.
”
”
Amy Tan (The Joy Luck Club)
“
Poppy," she murmured, "no matter how Miss Marks tries to civilize me- and I do try to listen to her- I still have my own way of looking at the world. To me, people are scarcely different from animals. We're all God's creatures, aren't we? When I meet someone, I know immediately what animal they would be. When we first met Cam, for example, I knew he was a fox."
"I suppose Cam is somewhat fox-like," Poppy said, amused. "What is Merripen? A bear?"
"No, unquestionably a horse. And Amelia is a hen."
"I would say an owl."
"Yes, but don't you remember when one of our hens in Hampshire chased after a cow that had strayed too close to the nest? That's Amelia."
Poppy grinned. "You're right."
"And Win is a swan."
"Am I also a bird? A lark? A robin?"
"No, you're a rabbit."
"A rabbit?" Poppy made a face. "I don't like that. Why am I a rabbit?"
"Oh, rabbits are beautiful soft animals who love to be cuddled. They're very sociable, but they're happiest in pairs."
"But their timid," Poppy protested.
"Not always. They're brave enough to be companions to many other creatures. Even cats and dogs."
"Well," Poppy said in resignation, "it's better than being a hedgehog, I suppose."
"Miss Marks is a hedgehog," Beatrix said in a matter-of-fact tone that made Poppy grin.
"And you're a ferret, aren't you, Bea?"
"Yes. But I was leading to a point."
"Sorry, go on."
"I was going to say that Mr. Rutledge is a cat. A solitary hunter. With an apparent taste for rabbit.
”
”
Lisa Kleypas (Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways, #3))
“
to think “my fangs”) had been poisonous? They passed Mrs. Norris, who turned her lamplike eyes upon them and hissed faintly, but Professor McGonagall said, “Shoo!” Mrs. Norris slunk away into the shadows, and in a few minutes they had reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. “Fizzing Whizbee,” said Professor McGonagall. The gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside; the wall behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that was moving continuously upward like a spiral escalator. The three of them stepped onto the moving stairs; the wall closed behind them with a thud, and they were moving upward in tight circles until they reached the highly polished oak door with the brass knocker shaped like a griffin. Though it was now well past midnight, there were voices coming from inside the room, a positive babble of them. It sounded as though Dumbledore was entertaining at least a dozen people. Professor McGonagall rapped three times with the griffin knocker, and the voices ceased abruptly as though someone had switched them all off. The door opened of its own accord and Professor McGonagall led Harry and Ron inside. The room was in half darkness; the strange silver instruments standing on tables were silent and still rather than whirring and emitting puffs of smoke as they usually did. The portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses covering the walls were all snoozing in their frames. Behind the door, a magnificent red-and-gold bird the size of a swan dozed on its perch with its head under its wing. “Oh, it’s you, Professor McGonagall . . . and . . . ah.” Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered purple-and-gold dressing gown over a snowy-white nightshirt
”
”
J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter, #5))
“
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
”
”
William Shakespeare
“
Vic gazed up at Kellan. His mate’s breathing was slow, but steady, and somewhere deep inside Vic believed that Kellan was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. The gods would watch over his beautiful swan and keep their egg safe.
Soon, Vic’s eyes grew heavy, but he fought against the sleep trying to take him. No, not yet. Just a little longer. He didn’t want Kellan to go through the egg-laying all by himself, not when Vic could be there and offer encouragement, to share in the moment and reassure him if he became scared.
The wool blanket was doing its job and Vic had warmed up nicely. His eyelids fluttered, so he tried to keep his focus on Kellan, tried to keep from drifting off.
Kellan. My precious mate, my love…
The song of a cardinal invaded Vic’s dream and he tried to ignore it in favor of the imaginary outing he was enjoying with Kellan on the lake during some future summer. We can bring the baby. I bet it will be a water baby, same as its daddy. The slow trill of the winter bird cut through Vic’s peaceful world and his eyes flew open, his brain registering it was morning right as his eyes adjusted to the light.
He yelped, his arms flailing for a second before he tumbled off the bed and landed with a thump onto the braided rug. Vic lay there for a moment, his heart pounding, trying to work out whether he was still in a dream or truly awake. He sucked in a deep breath, then pushed up from the floor. He peered over the edge of the bed, his eyes widening at the scene before him.
A majestic swan, pure white and breathtakingly beautiful, was perched on the blanket nest, its beak tucked under one wing. Vic smiled, relief flooding him as he realized what had happened.
Kellan.
His mate had shifted. Whatever had been wrong was right again
”
”
M.M. Wilde (A Swan for Christmas (Vale Valley Season One, #4))
“
The Happy Crow Once upon a time, there lived a crow in a forest. This crow was absolutely satisfied and happy with its life. One day it happened to go to a pond to drink water. It looked at its reflection in the water and turned its face this way and that. It preened its wings and thought about how shiny they were. The crow was convinced of its beauty. But then he saw a white swan swim by. Some ducks standing near the pond laughed at the crow for its black color and complimented and praised the swan. The crow was full of admiration for the swan. He told the swan that it was beautiful and also added, “you must be the happiest bird in the world.” The swan, however, did not appear so happy. When the crow asked her the reason the swan replied, “I also thought that I was the most beautiful and the happiest bird around, until I saw the parrot. You will not believe it. You and I have just one color, but the parrot has two, green and red. In my opinion, the parrot must be the happiest bird in the world.” The crow was intrigued and went to meet the parrot. When he saw the parrot, he too was convinced that it was indeed the most beautiful bird in the forest. When the crow asked the parrot, “you must be the happiest bird in the forest,” the parrot laughed and said, “I too lived under the same illusion, until I saw the peacock. You won’t believe how beautiful the peacock is. I have never seen a more colorful bird.” The inquisitive crow now went to meet the peacock and indeed it was the most colorful bird anyone could imagine. It danced happily with its wings spread and the crow watched mesmerized. However, a bird catcher hiding in the bush too had the same reaction and he captured the colorful peacock. The colorful parrot and the white swan too could not escape this fate. However, the crow with its shiny feathers and lustrous wings escaped this fate. The society’s bias against dark color saved the crow. The peacock, parrot, and swan looked at the crow flying about freely and thought “this must be the happiest bird in the world.
”
”
N.K. Sondhi (Know Your Worth : Stop Thinking, Start Doing)
“
Vanessa’s scream of terror pierced the air, while the pegasi flapped their wings and whinnied. Andy looked to the sky. A flock of giant ebony swans flew toward the clearing, visible just beyond the tall trees. Their shiny feathers shifted between black and silver in the sunlight. Their beaks were a dull bronze, their red eyes gleaming with malice. Together they let out a screech, and the trees shook.
Spencer’s jaw dropped. “That’s them. The Stymphalian Birds.
”
”
A.P. Mobley (The Helm of Darkness (War on the Gods, #1))
“
Everyone would think they were just pretty birds and then they attack. Stealth swans.” Matt
”
”
K.L. Armstrong (Odin's Ravens (The Blackwell Pages, #2))
“
The entire meal had a bird and egg theme, including magnificent castles with birds that flew out when the tower tops were cut off, roasted peacocks that still looked alive, swans made of sugar paste, and hundreds of eggs dyed black in the water of walnut hulls. I would have loved to have seen such a sight!
”
”
Crystal King (The Chef's Secret)
“
Swans were my mother’s favorite birds. She used to tell me that once they fall in love, they stay in love forever.
”
”
Elizabeth Lim (So This is Love)
“
As the Chinese translation of the name Sukhāvatī suggests, it is a land of supreme joy. The Sanskrit is of similar meaning: “that which possesses ease and comfort.” Sukhāvatī is not subject to the sufferings that plague this world and, furthermore, it is a land of surpassed beauty. It is described as having seven tiers of balustrades, seven rows of nets, and seven rows of trees, all adorned with four jewels (gold, silver, lapsis lazuli, and crystal). There is a lake of the seven jewels (gold, silver, lapis lazuli, crystal, a kind of big shell [tridacna gigas], coral, and agate), filled with water having the eight virtues. The bottom of the lake is gold sand. On the four sides of the lake are stairs (galleries) made of the four jewels. Above are towers and palaces also adorned with the seven jewels. Above are towers and palaces also adorned with the seven jewels. In the lake bloom lotus flowers as large as chariot wheels. The blue lotus flowers emit a blue light, and the yellow, red, and white lotus flowers emit light of corresponding colors. They all give forth a sweet fragrance.
The delightful sound of heavenly music can be hard, and in the morning, at noon, and in the evening mandārava flowers fall from the sky and gently pile up on the golden ground. Every morning the inhabitants of the Pure Land gather these flowers with the hems of their robes and make offerings of them to myriads of buddhas in other lands. At mealtime they return to their own land, where they take their meal and stroll around.
There are many kinds of birds—swans, peacocks, parrots, sharikas, kalaviṅkas, and jīvaṃjīvakas, which sing with beautiful voices, proclaiming the teachings of the Buddha. When living beings hear this song, they think about the Buddha, Dharma (“law,” or his teachings), and Saṅgha (“community of believers”). When the gentle breezes blow, the rows of four-jeweled trees and jeweled nets give forth a gentle music, like a beautiful symphony.
In this land dwell Amitābha Buddha and his two attendants, the bodhisattvas Avalokitśvara and Mahāsthāmaprāpta. At their feet are those virtuous beings who have been reborn in that land because of their ardent faith. All, however, are male; women of deep faith are reborn here with male bodies. The female sex, considered inferior and unfortunate, has no place in Sukhāvatī.
All people, says Śākyamuni, should ardently wish for rebirth in that land and become the companions of the most virtuous of all beings. People cannot hope for rebirth there just by performing a few good deeds, however. If living beings meditate eagerly upon the name of Amitābha for even one day with an undisturbed mind, Amitābha and his holy retinue will appear before them to receive them at the end of Life. They will enter the Pure Land with unperturbed hearts.
”
”
Akira Sadakata (Buddhist Cosmology: Philosophy and Origins)
“
sing swan spring swan then lets fly follow the pretty bird across the sky call swan fall swan then lets rest tucked in the branches of you quiet nest
”
”
Shannon Messenger (Exile (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #2))
“
Do not live in the world,
In distraction and false dreams,
Outside the law.
Arise and watch.
Follow the way joyfully
Through this world and beyond.
Follow the way of virtue.
Follow the way joyfully
Through this world and on beyond!
For consider the world–
A bubble, a mirage.
See the world as it is,
And death shall overlook you.
Come, consider the world,
A painted chariot for kings,
A trap for fools.
But he who sees goes free.
As the moon slips from behind a cloud
And shines,
So the master comes out from behind
his ignorance
And shines.
This world is in darkness.
How few have eyes to see!
How few the birds
Who escape the net and fly to heaven!
Swans rise and fly toward the sun.
What magic!
So do the pure conquer the armies of illusion
And rise and fly.
If you scoff at heaven
And violate the law,
If your words are lies,
Where will your mischief end?
The fool laughs at generosity.
The miser cannot enter heaven.
But the master finds joy in giving
And happiness is his reward.
And more–
For greater than all the joys
Of heaven and of earth,
Greater still than dominion
Over all the worlds,
Is the joy of reaching the stream.
”
”
The Dhammapada (The Dhammapada)
“
I will turn this swan into a raven; my goddess of darkness, my queen of death. Because only when she becomes as unprincipled as me, would she willingly stay with me in my castle of dead bones and blood
”
”
Rue Knightly (Venom and Black Swan (Birds of Sorrow Duet Book 1))
“
You are right, little starlight; every man must have a fear no matter how indomitable he thinks he is. But hear this truth, I am not every man.
”
”
Rue Knightly (Venom and Black Swan (Birds of Sorrow Duet Book 1))
“
Now these remarks caused a great deal of resentment, hatred, misery, bloodshed, and death. The creatures began to quarrel, and then to wage war with one another. The owl families were continually in disagreement with the hawk families. Neither the hawk families nor the owl families would listen to the entreaties of the swan families to live in peace with them. The magpie quarrelled with every bird and with the smaller animals, especially the mouse and rat families.
”
”
W. Ramsay Smith (Myths and Legends of the Australian Aborigines)
“
Infinite Journey
The sky was covered with swans and birds
moving towards there endless infinite journey
there image reflecting with new waves
my small boat was moving with the winds
some new lights falls on me
makes me fly higher and higher beyond space
towards the infintie journey of eternal love
where i will listen the chanting of birds
which are flying with my floating boat
towards the endless journey
where the sun always tries to meet the earth
on the edges of oceans far far away
where the waves tries to kiss the clouds
”
”
Ramesh Kavdia
“
In The End of Jobs, Taylor Pearson calls this The Turkey Problem, inspired by a clever analogy found in Nassim Taleb’s Black Swan. Taleb writes: “Consider a turkey that is fed every day. Every single feeding will firm up the bird's belief that it is the general rule of life to be fed every day by friendly members of the human race ‘looking out for its best interests,’ as a politician would say. On the afternoon of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, something unexpected will happen to the turkey. It will incur a revision of belief.” Bye-bye Mr. Turkey. The turkey thinks he’s safe, until he realizes at the last minute that he’s not. We tend to believe that working at big corporations keeps us safe. But in reality, it’s the job of the HR department to make you feel that way, even if it’s not true. Every day you work at a large corporation, you’re building up silent risk. One day, you might realize you’re a turkey. Do you remember a company called Lehman Brothers? I know it’s a distant memory for some, but before 2008 it was the 4th largest investment bank in the United States. Then it went bankrupt. Bye-bye.
”
”
Jesse Tevelow (Hustle: The Life Changing Effects of Constant Motion)
“
He will praise you when you shall do well to him,” [96] but few sing and give thanks to God in the night of adversity, and the little bird does better than they. It is said that the swan sings more sweetly at its death than ever before. Then, brothers, let us thank God and bless him in all our works, as this Letter tells us, for if we bless him in trials and sufferings they cease to hurt us, and if we bless him for his favors, he will grant us more. Chapter 4 That We Should Give Thanks in Adversities WE
”
”
Francisco De Osuna (Third Spiritual Alphabet)
“
Aaarrgghheeee….”
There was a pounding of feet and a yell that would make a ninja master proud. I spun around just as Shawn dashed past me in a mindless panic. Before I could understand the reason behind his mad dash for freedom, I felt the brush of feathers. A black swan was madly flapping his wings and chasing after my boyfriend, reaching his long neck to peck at his butt. Shawn ran for his life, darting across the lawn and running in a circle before making his way back toward me.
“Shawn!” I gasped in shock and panic. He attempted to jump over a small tree in the garden, but caught his foot and went sprawling on the lakeside path, knocking me off balance as he fell. I took a step backward with the impact of his body against mine, but there was nothing behind me apart from lake. The water was knee deep, and I fell, spread eagle on my back, and splashed into it without hurting myself. But it was cold, wet, and dirty. Birds scattered in fright as I picked myself up with disgust.
Ow, help, ow, help, ow, get off, ow.”
Shawn was still yelling, and I looked up to see a swan attacking his prone body, pecking at his arms, legs, and face. His mother came to the rescue, using her handbag like a battle-ax, knocking the bird away from Shawn, then swinging the bag in front of the swan’s face until he gave up the fight and retreated to the water.
I climbed out of the lake, dripping and stinking like a sewer. “Shawn?” There was blood on his clothes, and my heart stopped. “Shawn? Baby? You’re bleeding.”
He sat up gingerly and inspected a couple of peck marks on his arms before touching his chin. “Oh, fiddlesticks,” he exclaimed. “I hit my chin when I fell. How bad is it, Harley?”
Still soaking wet, I drove him to the hospital, where Christine exclaimed with delight over his injuries before the doctor slipped in three stitches under his chin. Christine patched up his peck marks and cleaned his grazed palms before we went home.
”
”
Renae Kaye (Shawn's Law)
“
But the proudest of all these birds were the swans, and these Ossë let dwell in Tol Eressëa,
”
”
Anonymous
“
Dilemmas of the Angels: Flight"
Before the angel there was something else—
not this coffee shop next to a drug rehabilitation center
filled with war veterans of the past, men and women
strapped to their chairs, birds straining to rise
from piles of feathers, bones, and blood.
Drenched in sweat and a little shaky
from too much caffeine, she takes flight,
a shining white-winged trumpeter swan
crossing open water, steam rising
from the feathers' barbs. Below her,
a cormorant, unfolding its black wings,
explodes from the surface, and even fish,
leaping from the oily sheen, glide
for a moment, gills pumping
in the poisonous atmosphere.
Such longing. How large
the muscles in our shoulders must be
to lift our wings even a single time.
”
”
David Romtvedt (Dilemmas of the Angels: Poems)
“
What happened in those first few months with the musician was a form of shedding. The more I encountered the reality of birds, the more my secondhand impressions of 'birds' began to fall away. When we sat together in a swirl of mist and formless time, when I stopped seeing my idea of trees and started seeing infinite shades of green, when I looked at a swan's back and saw that each feather was an intricate masterpiece of white, when distances collapsed and my own sense of scale diminished, it was a molting.
”
”
Kyo Maclear (Birds Art Life: A Year of Observation)
“
I loathed her almost as much as I wanted her. The bird was both my remedy and my affliction.
”
”
Ella Fields (The Savage and the Swan (Fated Fae))
“
The mindful ones want freedom. They do not want to be attached to any home; Like swans that fly away from the lake, They leave behind one home after another. 92. The perfected ones do not collect things; They eat to live instead of living to eat; And their goal is nothingness, or unconditional freedom. Their path cannot be traced, like that of birds in the air.
”
”
Gerald Schoenewolf (The Dhammapada: Teachings of Buddha)
“
At other times, he envisioned testing a machine over water while wearing a life-preserver. “You will experiment with this machine over a lake and you will wear as a belt a long wineskin, so that if you fall in, you will not drown.”25 And finally, when all of his experiments were nearing an end, he mingled his plans with fantasies. “The large bird will take its first flight from the back of the great Swan,” he wrote on the last folio of his Codex on the Flight of Birds, referring to Swan Mountain (Monte Ceceri) near Fiesole, “filling the universe with amazement, filling all writings with its fame, and bringing eternal glory to the nest where it was born.”26
”
”
Walter Isaacson (Leonardo da Vinci)
“
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.
”
”
Muhammad Ashraful Alam
“
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.
”
”
Muhammad Ashraful Alam
“
Sing swan, spring swan
Then let's fly
Follow the pretty bird
Across the sky
Call swan, fall swan
Then let's rest
Tucked in the branches
Of your quiet nest
”
”
Shannon Messenger (Exile (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #2))
“
(Female) Unfolding of spatial structures and geometric patterns. Then there is a bird, a swan, light and large, who flies with me over the Earth, and the Earth is so beautiful. The Earth looks as though set with pearls, dazzlingly beautiful, and I have the thought “Oh my God, how beautiful it is.” I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the Earth.
”
”
Ralph Metzner (The Toad and the Jaguar)
“
I don’t draw the black swan that’s the symbol for the Lebedev Bratva, the one my brothers have tattooed on their forearms. Instead, I draw a magpie, one of my favorite birds. I envy the freedom of a creature that can just take off any damn time it wants. I’d give anything to escape, but my brothers have made sure my wings are permanently clipped. I won’t be leaving my cage anytime soon.
”
”
Sonja Grey (Paved in Hate (Melnikov Bratva, # 4))
“
like yearning to be a swan when you were demonstrably a bird of different feather;
”
”
Älexander McCall Smith
“
like yearning to be a swan when you were demonstrably a bird of a different feather;
”
”
Alexander McCall Smith (The Man with the Silver Saab (Detective Varg, #3))
“
« No water so still as the
dead fountains of Versailles ». No swan,
with swart blind look askance
and gondoliering legs, so fine
as the chintz china one with fawn-
brown eyes and toothed gold
collar on to show whose bird it was.
Lodged in the Louis Fifteenth
candelabrum-tree of cockscomb-
tinted buttons, dahlias,
sea-urchins, and everlastings,
it perches on the branching foam
of polished sculpture
flowers - at ease and tall. The king is dead.
”
”
Marianne Moore (Collected Poems)
“
Swan, just make it. Don't give up. Prove how much like Raptor you really are, and don't forget that while birds have wings, they also have talons. You’re a fighter. Keep fighting.
”
”
Heather Long (Dirty Devil (82 Street Vandals, #4))