Quotes About Melody

The end of a melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either. A parable.

Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion. Those who heard them listened in delight, and so similar were the two voices that they sounded like a single chant. Born of pain and longing, their song had the power to break the unhappiness of the world.

He liked playing his music for her. She listened. When he played her something that sucked, she said so. Well, in a nice way, Theo thought. That kind of thing told him she was paying attention, real attention. Their mother never had. To much of anything. I'm not good with the word part. I just like doing the melody.

What are they playing?" Shannon asked. The fiddler was joined by a piper and another who played

Music is the space between the notes.

I'll sing forever and never hear a word.

I am that poet who in times past made the light melody of pastoral poetry. In my next poem I left the woods for the adjacent farmlands, teaching them to obey even the most exacting tillers of the soil; and the farmers liked my work. But now I turn to the terrible strife of Mars.

The light struck upon the trees in the garden, making one leaf transparent and then another. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down. The sun sharpended the walls of the house, and rested like the tip of a fan upon a white blind and made a fingerprint of a shadow under the leaf by the bedroom window. The blind stirred slightly, but all within was dim and unsubstantial. The birds sang their blank melody outside.

that beautiful voice which made everything she said sound like a caress

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.

The meek stars are brightening up heaven's blue deep, The low winds are rocking the flowers to sleep, And the leaflet's soft, rustling melody seems Like some echo that comes from a beautiful dream.

I, who am doubt now, with a song .

The music whirled and flirted with the air, spinning like snowflakes in an alley.

The music may have stopped but my heart beats to another tune, this rhythm called love.

Music!—who loves it not? who has not felt his soul soothed and softened by its sweet influence?

Music is what feelings sound like.

Music is what life sounds like.

Music is the color of sound.

The bones of music are the universal rhythms within us all.

A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.

Poetry cries melodic tears of verse.

Thomas Holley Chivers is at the same time one of the best and one of the worst poets in America. His productions affect one as a wild dream — strange, incongruous, full of images of more than arabesque monstrosity, and snatches of sweet unsustained song. Even his worst nonsense (and some of it is horrible) has an indefinite charm of sentiment and melody.

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung