Quotes About Sings

Come oh come ye tea-thirsty restless ones -- the kettle boils, bubbles and sings, musically.

The palm at the end of the mind,Beyond the last thought, rises…A gold-feathered birdSings in the palm.

It may be that when we no longer know which way to go that we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

I'm just an ordinary, walking-down-the-street, mother of two children who sings for her supper.

There are all kinds of pretensions about art, but I'm just a guy who sings for his supper.

Hope' is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul/And sings the tune without the words/And never stops–at all.

When Brahms is in extra good spirits, he sings, "The grave is my joy".

Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang the while she sings, Nor as she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.

Companions in pathos,who barely murmur,go with your lamp spent and return the jewels. A new mystery sings in your bones. Cultivate your legitimate strangeness.

Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

Hope is a bird that sings the songs of possibilities from the deepness of the heart.

The Orphic Machine is the poem: A severed head with face turned away that sings.

He jackrabbits to the stairs, but instead of running away he turns around and does a merry little soft-shoe routine. When he's done he sings "Rum-tiddley-um-tum-tay" before disappearing down the stairs. I stagger back to the apartment with a handful of blood and embarrassment. Fuck Hollywood is at the door when I get there.

God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone; He that sings a lasting song Thinks in a marrow-bone.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches on the soul, And sings the tune without words, And never stops at all.

Within your physical atoms the origins of all consciousness still sings.

I wait on the origin of night's sounds waking. I know that here only the blind man sings, even in rain The notes of drenched violins rise like warped mirrors' and the last clouds part slowly, like a cracked wheel.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

spring comes, flowers fragrant, bird sings.

Warner laces his boots and sings the songs and marches the marches, acting less out of duty than out of a time worn desire to be dutiful.

Sings. Hope in every sphere of life is a privilege that attaches to action. No action, no hope.