Turtle Dove Quotes

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Two turtle doves will show thee Where my cold ashes lie And sadly murmuring tell thee How in tears I did die
Nikolai Gogol
I Hear the sledges with the bells - Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells - Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! - From the molten - golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! - how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bells - Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now - now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale - faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells - Of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - In the clamor and the clanging of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells - Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people - ah, the people - They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone - They are neither man nor woman - They are neither brute nor human - They are Ghouls: - And their king it is who tolls: - And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells: - Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells: - To the sobbing of the bells: - Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells - To the tolling of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, - To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Edgar Allan Poe
If in the moonlight from the silent bough Suddenly with precision speak your name The nightingale, be not assured that now His wing is limed and his wild virtue tame. Beauty beyond all feathers that have flown Is free; you shall not hood her to your wrist, Nor sting her eyes, nor have her for your own In any fashion; beauty billed and kissed Is not your turtle; tread her like a dove - She loves you not; she never heard of love.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (Collected Poems: Edna St. Vincent Millay)
They’re in love. Like black vultures. And termites. Yes, turtle doves and swans aren’t the only animals that mate for life. Ugly, toilet-licking termites and death-eating vultures do too.
Jandy Nelson (I'll Give You the Sun)
Are you taking me off to the woods where no one will see when you kill me?" Becky asked.
Kim Law (Two Turtle Island Doves (Turtle Island, #2.5))
January? The month is dumb. It is fraudulent. It does not cleanse itself. The hens lay blood-stained eggs. Do not lend your bread to anyone lest it nevermore rise. Do not eat lentils or your hair will fall out. Do not rely on February except when your cat has kittens, throbbing into the snow. Do not use knives and forks unless there is a thaw, like the yawn of a baby. The sun in this month begets a headache like an angel slapping you in the face. Earthquakes mean March. The dragon will move, and the earth will open like a wound. There will be great rain or snow so save some coal for your uncle. The sun of this month cures all. Therefore, old women say: Let the sun of March shine on my daughter, but let the sun of February shine on my daughter-in-law. However, if you go to a party dressed as the anti-Christ you will be frozen to death by morning. During the rainstorms of April the oyster rises from the sea and opens its shell — rain enters it — when it sinks the raindrops become the pearl. So take a picnic, open your body, and give birth to pearls. June and July? These are the months we call Boiling Water. There is sweat on the cat but the grape marries herself to the sun. Hesitate in August. Be shy. Let your toes tremble in their sandals. However, pick the grape and eat with confidence. The grape is the blood of God. Watch out when holding a knife or you will behead St. John the Baptist. Touch the Cross in September, knock on it three times and say aloud the name of the Lord. Put seven bowls of salt on the roof overnight and the next morning the damp one will foretell the month of rain. Do not faint in September or you will wake up in a dead city. If someone dies in October do not sweep the house for three days or the rest of you will go. Also do not step on a boy's head for the devil will enter your ears like music. November? Shave, whether you have hair or not. Hair is not good, nothing is allowed to grow, all is allowed to die. Because nothing grows you may be tempted to count the stars but beware, in November counting the stars gives you boils. Beware of tall people, they will go mad. Don't harm the turtle dove because he is a great shoe that has swallowed Christ's blood. December? On December fourth water spurts out of the mouse. Put herbs in its eyes and boil corn and put the corn away for the night so that the Lord may trample on it and bring you luck. For many days the Lord has been shut up in the oven. After that He is boiled, but He never dies, never dies.
Anne Sexton
Ode to the Chamber ...linger here amidst the chamber in which we embrace our love talk to me of sonnets and call me turtledove...
Muse (Enigmatic Evolution)
A slim shoulder shrugged on the other side of Mako, and his darned dog slid down and plopped her head into Becky’s lap. Jealousy burned in Kelly. Becky had a really nice lap.
Kim Law (Two Turtle Island Doves (Turtle Island, #2.5))
Hither, thither, through the sky, turtle-doves and linnets, fly! Blackbird, thrush, and chaffinch gay, hither, thither, haste away! One and all, come, help me quick! haste ye, haste ye--pick, pick, pick!
Jacob Grimm (Grimm's Fairy Stories)
This is the way the wheel turns, coming at last to full circle, with wild as well as tame at he crib; lion and turtle-dove together an barnyard beasts lying down with the fox. For wild and tame are but two hlaves and here, where all begins and ends, everything must be whole. And always, among the sleepers, there must be somebody waking - somewhere, someone, waking and watchful. Or what would happen to the world..?
P.L. Travers (The Fox at the Manger)
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)
Hannah Hurnard (Hinds' Feet on High Places)
My beloved speaks and says to me: Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
Jennifer Robson (Goodnight From London)
Nahin Minnatkash-e-Taab-e-Shaneedan Dastan Meri Khamoshi Guftugu Hai, Be-Zubani Hai Zuban Meri My story is not indebted to the patience of being heard My silence is my talk, my speechlessness is my speech Ye Dastoor-e-Zuban Bandi Hai Kaisa Teri Mehfil Mein Yahan To Baat Karne Ko Tarasti Hai Zuban Meri Why does this custom of silencing exist in your assembly? My tongue is tantalized to talk in this assembly Uthaye Kuch Waraq Lale Ne, Kuch Nargis Ne, Kuch Gul Ne Chaman Mein Har Taraf Bikhri Huwi Hai Dastan Meri Some leaves were picked up by the tulip, some by the narcissus, some by the rose My story is scattered around everywhere in the garden Urha Li Qumriyon Ne, Tootiyon Ne, Andleebon Ne Chaman Walon Ne Mil Kar Loot Li Tarz-e-Faghan Meri The turtle‐doves, parrots, and nightingales pilfered away The garden’s denizens jointly robbed away my plaintive way Tapak Ae Shama Ansu Ban Ke Parwane Ki Ankhon Se Sarapa Darun Hun, Hasrat Bhari Hai Dastan Meri O Candle! Drip like tears from the eye of the moth Head to foot pathos I am, full of longing is my story
Muhammad Iqbal
made his way to the lectern. “A reading from the book of Solomon: “My beloved speaks and says to me: Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtle dove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
Jennifer Robson (Goodnight From London)
I don't mind scrambling around in public after baby birds and trapped butterflies. I don't mind the strange looks and smirks that inevitably follow such activities. I can't walk by creatures in need. And I get to take home the greatest treasure of all: a warm glow, knowing that one more turtle will lay her eggs; one more dove, one more skipper will fly because I stopped to help.
Julie Zickefoose (Letters From Eden: A Year at Home, in the Woods)
And yet life, Lucilius, is really a battle. For this reason those who are tossed about at sea, who proceed uphill and downhill over toilsome crags and heights, who go on campaigns that bring the greatest danger, are heroes and front-rank fighters; but persons who live in rotten luxury and ease while others toil, are mere turtle-doves—safe only because men despise them. Farewell.
Seneca (Letters from a Stoic)
And yet life, Lucilius, is really a battle. For this reason those who are tossed about at sea, who proceed uphill and downhill over toilsome crags and heights, who go on campaigns that bring the greatest danger, are heroes and front-rank fighters; but per- sons who live in rotten luxury and ease while others toil, are mere turtle-doves safe only because men despise them. Farewell.
Seneca (Letters from a Stoic: Seneca’s Moral Letters to Lucilius)
So trustful are the doves, the squirrels, the birds of the branches, and the creatures of the field. Under their tuition let us rid ourselves of mental terrors, and face death itself as calmly as they do the livid lightning; so trustful and so content with their fate, resting in themselves and unappalled. If but by reason and will I could reach the godlike calm and courage of what we so thoughtlessly call the timid turtle-dove, I should lead a nearly perfect life.
Richard Jefferies (The Life Of The Fields)
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
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.
Logan Chance (Taken (Taken, #1))
Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land. Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: “Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same”. Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: “Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.
Nick Mulvey
Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land, Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.'" Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: "I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.
Nick Mulvey
Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land, Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.'" Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: "I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.
Nick Mulvey
Deep in the underground lake, another dragonet was swimming, although the temperature of the water didn’t bother her. Fathom’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter dove to the bottom and then shot up out of the lake, soaring to the ceiling and spiraling back down with a splash. “Very impressive, Princess!” called the SeaWing named Pike, paddling in a small circle nearby. “Such speed! And grace!” The SeaWing with the skyfire bracelet snorted from the top of a rock. “Anybody can do that,” he said. “Not when you’re tied to your mother,” his sister said, squirting water at him with her talons. I’ve never flown as fast as I wanted or soared as high as I could go. Now I can do anything, anything I want. “Stop being such a mope, Turtle. So what if your entire winglet is gone? You’ve still got us.” She thwacked her tail into the water, sending a wave over the other three SeaWings in the lake with her. Unless Mother comes and tries to take me home. But I won’t let her. I won’t. I might be the most powerful dragon in the world, and if she didn’t learn that from what I did to Whirlpool, I can teach her some other way. The spell on Auklet’s harness should keep her away from me, though. If it doesn’t, I’ll come up with something stronger. “Tag! You’re it!” Barracuda called, tapping Anemone’s tail and racing away. The rest of the SeaWing princess’s thoughts scattered into laughter and the game.
Tui T. Sutherland (Winter Turning (Wings of Fire, #7))
Mary" was my mother’s mother And my sister too. There’s rain in the river. There’s a river running through To the sea around these islands, Crying tears of sorrow and pain. There’s rain in the river; There’s a river in my veins. Mary, young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be.) Living lines of memory drew the markings on my hands. Ancient lines of living love are waking in this land. Saying: “I am in the city, in the forest and the field; I am in the bounty, come on, know me as I yield. I am in the falcon, in the otter and the stoat; I am in the turtle dove with nowhere left to go. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.'" Mary Ethel Ruddock, 1912 to 72, Though we never met in flesh, now I remember you Were warm and you were gentle; you were modest; you were kind. A mother, wife and gran; you were a woman of your time. Do we know your life in colour? Do we celebrate your flame, Remembering your offering With a candle in your name? Mary young as we may be, you know the blood in you and me is as old as blood can be (is as old as blood can be). She says: "I am in the living; I am in the dying too. I am in the stillness, Can you see me as I move? I am in the Hawthorn, in the Apple and the Beech; I am in the mayhem and the medicine of speech. And in the moment of blind madness, as he’s pushing her away, I am in the lover and in the ear who hears her say: 'Can we begin again? Oh baby it’s me again. I know you are so different to me but I love you just the same. I love you just the same. Love you just the same. I love you just the same.
Nick Mulvey