Quotes About Music

Alice's voice rang out confidently from the back of the room. "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright..." Her rendition was flawless: clear, true notes strung together in a necklace of sound, a gift for everyone in the room to wear.

His work paid off, and he got her a contract to star in a revue at the Casino de Paris, the most respectable of the city's music halls in the 1930s. Henri Varna ran the club, which emphasized

By George, the next time he found himself on the road all alone late at night, he was going to whistle along to every damn song on the radio. "That'll show them," he snarled, though he had no idea who he'd be showing nor why he nearly tore the knob off when he shut off the radio.

He smiled, which was not at all what she'd expected. It wasn't just a polite smile, either. It was the kind that made her want to sit on the front-porch swing, if she'd had a swing, and hum romantic songs from the thirties, those terrific old songs that talked about red sails in the sunset and the glory of love.

I've been told by professional drug users that if I did the drugs, I would like the Dead. It seems like the most effective PSA against drugs could just play some Dead jams and say, "If you do drugs, you will like this kind of music." What other deterrent would one need?

Hvis Lone kom fra et hjem med klaver og jeg fra et hjem med kinopiano, er Marianne fra et hjem med munnharpe.

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

He is made one with Nature: there is heardHis voice in all her music, from the moanOf thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep, autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory —

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell the saddest thoughts.

Sounds of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs— To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart.

I have sent books and music there, and all / Those instruments with which high spirits call / The future from its cradle, and the past / Out of its grave, and make the present last / In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, / Folded within their own eternity.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

And I have fitted up some chambers there Looking towards the golden Eastern air, And level with the living winds, which flow Like waves above the living waves below.— I have sent books and music there, and all Those instruments with which high spirits call The future from its cradle, and the past Out of its grave, and make the present last In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, Folded within their own eternity.

Away, away, from men and towns, / To the wild wood and the downs, — / To the silent wilderness, / Where the soul need not repress its music.

Though the sound overpowers, Sing again, with your dear voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one.

We—are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar; Such difference without discord, as can make Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake As trembling leaves in a continuous air?

forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings Give various response to each varying blast, To whose frail frame no second motion brings One mood or modulation like the last.

Our sweetest songs are those of saddest thought.

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

Music, When Soft Voices Die Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.