To warm their little loves the birds complain.

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood; And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

JASON: 'Intended wings.' How depressing.
MICHAEL: Yes. Makes them into suicides, really, the pigeons.
JASON: No - no, it doesn't. It could mean the wings were 'intended' to carry them upwards, out of the darkness, but they were defective in some way, these wings, so the pigeons aren't suicidal, not at all, just badly equipped for flying. Like the rest of us.

What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.

Birds do strange things sometimes. Not all birds are wired the same way. Thirty-five years ago a heron from Africa showed up on Martha's Vineyard, and herons don't fly nearly as well as other birds.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.