Quotes About Song

Summertime, it was a song, it was a season. I wondered if that season would ever live inside of me.

Men, even when alone, lighten their labors by song, however rude it may be.

It was no thought or word that called culture into being, but a tool or a weapon. After the stone axe we needed song and story to remember innocence, to record effect- and so to describe the limits, to say what can be done without damage.

And I, through woods and fields, through fallen days Am passing to where I belong: At home, at ease, and well, In Sabbaths of this place Almost invisible, Toward which I go from song to song.

From cloud to sea to cloud, I climb The deer road through the leafless trees Under a wind that batters limb On limb, still roaring as it has Two nights and days, cold in slow spring. But ancient song in a wild throat Recalls itself and starts to sing In storm-cleared light...

The warmth has come. The doors have opened. Flower and song Embroider ground and air, lead me Beside the healing field that waits; Growth, death, and a restoring form Of human use will make it well. But I go on, beyond, higher In the hill's fold, forget the time I come from and go to, recall This grove left out of all account, A place enclosed in song.

A grace living here as we live, Move my mind now to that which holds Things as they change. The warmth has come. The doors have opened. Flower and song Embroider ground and air, lead me Beside the healing field that waits

It has been the one song of those who thirst after absolute power that the interest of the state requires that its affairs should be conducted in secret . . . .

Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

What is the price of Experience? do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children. Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy, And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain.

and his voice the cry of a bird unknown, 3Jane answering in song, three notes, high and pure. A true name.

Là dove il popolo partiva per la guerra, restavano sentieri amari… E tutto quell'universo di terrestre bellezza e di angosce, Danijar l'apriva davanti a me nel suo canto. Dove aveva imparato, da chi aveva avuto tutto ciò? Capivo che così può amare la sua terra solo chi per lunghi anni ha languito per essa, chi ha patito di questo amore. Quando la cantava, vedevo proprio lui, un povero ragazzetto, vagabondare per le strade della steppa.

Ng??i ?àn bà thông thái ?y h?n là gi? ?ây ?ang nh? l?i tu?i xuân c?a mình, cái tu?i xuân mà, nh? l?i hát trong các bài dân ca c?a chúng tôi, d?u có ??ng trên ??nh núi cao nh?t c?ng không sao g?i th?u

Sometimes he sang to me, making me smile because he was always slightly off-key, my husband who was so perfect at everything else. For me, that was part of his charm.

The Ramones give Needles & Pins the possibility of irony, but the irony doesn't undercut the song's emotion, it makes it stronger and more true.

Before we leave the gravesite, Mary sings Mother's favorite gospel hymn ... Mary's lovely voice rises and lingers in the air, and by the end of the song most of us are crying. I am too, though I still don't know what those stars are meant to represent. My mistake, I suppose, is in thinking they should mean something.

It felt very natural to me to write a Christmas song, but at the same time I had to really put all sorts of pressure aside and just let the creativity flow and see what came out.

Silence is more musical than any song.

A song called 'Earth Angel' played in her head all morning—also three trumpets and a piano.

Far in the back of her mind she was thinking. But she could not dredge up these half-formed feelings, these obscure bits of ideas, into clear, definite thoughts. . . . Her mind ticked away, singing a song she could not decipher.

L'amour chante, silencieux, Les ténèbres ouvrent tes yeux.

Come, ye thankful people, come,Raise the song of harvest-home;All is safely gathered in,Ere the winter storms begin.

Dearest, these household cares remit; And while the sky is blue today, Here in this sunny shelter sit, To list the blackbird's lay.

Poetry without music may be beautiful, but music gives poetry wings and elevates it into song. That may be the reason for our love of song-it has wings and lifts us; with proper songs, it is a nourishing spiritual exercise.