Quotes About Singing

If he [Arthur, number thirteen] had to die, he decided he would die singing. And doing what he knew now was his destiny: to sing to the lonely comfort the frightened, and awaken the love in sleeping hearts

Where Passion Stands Singing Into the Breathless Wind Dreams and Hope Sail with Her Upon the Sighs of Morning, Waking from their Languid Sleep To Become Reality. Sing, then, O Sweet Passion, And Rouse these Dreams with Songs That spill from Depths Within the Soul, Transforming All that Will Yet Be Into Matchless Beauteous Intrepidity

She was gentle and sedate as usual, but evidently absent and preoccupied. Her eyes rested on the dew lying on the grass in the garden, and her ears were intent upon the melancholy singing of the autumn insects. It was as if we were in a real romance.

I hear the singing of the lives of women. The clear mystery, the offering, and the pride.

Allow me, in conclusion, to congratulate you warmly upon your sexual intercourse, as well as your singing.

Humor is like a singing Tibetan bowl, you manipulate the sound of laughter, subtle notes of awareness.

Translate yourself to spirit; Be present on your journey. Keep to the trees and waters. Be the singing of the soil.

If I was sad or afraid, I would sit in a corner and sing. If I was happy I would jump into the middle of the room and sing. It was how I expressed my emotions.

Don't twist your voice while singing, You will hate how it sound when you are quiet

Magic was singing in me, through me; I felt the murmur of his power singing back that same song.

Shigure Sohma: singing High school girls high school girls all for me High school girls

She longed for the sound of girls' voices or a woman singing as she fed chickens.

Between the ranch-house and the house we live in is the singing creek where the willows grow. We have conversations. And there I do dabble my toes beside the willows. I feel the feels of gladness they do feel.

By the wood-shed is a brook. It goes singing on. Its joy-song does sing in my heart.

Do I listen to God singing the melody and then sing in harmony with Him or do I sing my own melody and urge Him to harmonize with me?

Never in a million years did I think I'd end up making a career out of singing. I didn't think it was possible. As far as I knew, the only way I could make any dough was to go and work in a factory, like everyone else in Aston. Or rob a f**king bank.

So in the sweltering heat of a July night, I sang a Christmas carol to a room full of fae, who had been driven out of their homelands by Christians and their cold-iron swords.

They staggered and stumbled, wounded but triumphant, singing the old Welsh folk song "Ar Lan y Môr." And if there was something odd about returning from battle singing about lilies, rosemary, rocks, and—for some reason he'd never fathomed—eggs, of all things, by the sea, well, then the three of them made it sound pretty good and only he and Beauclaire knew Welsh.

I sing the songs I sang to you every night. I sing them so I will remember you, hoping that you will remember me too, even though I am here, and you are there.

I think of human singing, and note that angels are not said to sing. The gift of singing, of making music, and of composing songs may well be one of the greatest marks in man of the creator. Any serious listener of music must recognize the laments and the infinite sorrow expressed in much of our music. Do not our very musical notes ring with the lament of a broken man?

Like how stars might sound. Or moons But not mountains. Too floaty for mountains. It's a sound like one planet singing to another, high stretched and full of different voices starting at different notes and sloping down to other different notes but all weaving together in a rope of sound that's sad but not sad and slow but not slow and all singing one word. One word.

In some ways. it began when I heard her singing. Her voice twinning, mixing with my own. Her voice was like a portrait of her soul; wild as a fire, sharp as shattered glass, sweet and clean as clover

So much was so easy. Glamour was second nature. It was just making folk see what they wanted to see. Fooling folk was as simple as singing. Tricking folk and telling lies, it was like breathing. But this? Convincing someone of the truth that they were too twisted to see? How could you even begin?

And we sang! Her voice like burning silver, my voice an echoing answer. Savien sang solid, powerful lines, like branches of a rock-old oak, all the while Aloine was like a nightingale, moving in darting circles around the proud limbs of it.