Quotes About Nightingale

Music lives within thy lips Like a nightingale in roses.

I am black with love/ neither boy nor nightingale/ perfectly whole as a flower/ I desire without impulse

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.

When Whitney Houston died, I felt great sadness. My sadness, of course, was about our collective loss - when you listened to this nightingale sing, your body would drop into a chair, your head would tilt up, a small smile would creep across your face, and inside you knew that there was a higher power somewhere: gifted, beautiful, spiritual.

I envy no man's nightingale or spring; Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme, Who plainly say, My God, My King.

It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me.

The ravens of the night were hush'd, The bird of dawn began his lay, The rose-bud, newly wakened, blush'd To feel the touch of springing day; And bade the roses round unveil, Roused by the warbling nightingale. The jasmine stood all bathed in dew; Wet were the violet's lids of blue. - Zuleika's Dream

Inside the magic globe that Florence Nightingale carries, there are wishes and hopes and love. And all of these things are very tiny and also very bright. And there are thousands of wishes and hopes and love things, and they move around in the magic globe, and that's what Florence uses to see by. That is how she sees soldiers who have fallen on the battlefield of life.

I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,There is no music in the nightingale.

Thus nature gets credit which should in truth be reserved for ourselves: the rose for its scent: the nightingale for his song: the sun for its radiance. The poets are entirely mistaken. They should address their lyrics to themselves, and should turn them into odes of self-congratulation on the excellency of the human mind. Nature is a dull affair, soundless, scentless, colourless...

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,The mother of months in meadow or plainFills the shadows and windy placesWith lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;And the brown bright nightingale amorousIs half assuaged for Itylus,For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

I don't want to see you caught like a word in that last line. What does the nightingale do when it runs out of things to say? Only this: I have never been so astonished at the love of one woman which is the way the moon finally closes its eye behind a ridge, the way the wind never stays around long enough to see what it has brought.

of the emperor whose gorgeous clockwork bird had seized up in the end; on his deathbed he'd called for the dark-feathered nightingale, knowing he never should have chosen a shiny substitute, because nothing but her real song could save him now. Was there any music that would bring back memories once they were lost in the fog? What were we, once our stories had drifted off like smoke?

A Nightingale!" he marvelled. Ah, so Matron had told him that much. Lib was always shy of introducing the great lady's name into conversation and loathed the whimsical title that had come to be attached to all those Miss N. had trained, as if they were dolls cast in her heroic mould. "Yes, I had the honour of serving under her at Scutari." "Noble labour." It

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

And what else can I do, lame old man that I am, than sing the praise of God? If I were a nightingale, I would perform the work of a nightingale, and if I were a swan, that of a swan. But as it is, I am a rational being, and I must sing the praise of God. This is my work, and I accomplish it, and I will never abandon my post for as long as it is granted to me to remain in it; and I invite all of you to join me in this same song.

To understand God's thoughts, one must study statistics, for these are the measure of His purpose.

In my defense I have only silence, dew on the grass, a nightingale among the branches. You forgive it, its long tenure in the leaves of one aspen after another, drops of eternity, grams of amazement, and the sleepy complaints of the poor poets

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

It is modest of the nightingale not to require anyone to listen to it; but it is also proud of the nightingale not to care whether any one listens to it or not.

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me.

If in the moonlight from the silent bough Suddenly with precision speak your name The nightingale, be not assured that now His wing is limed and his wild virtue tame. Beauty beyond all feathers that have flown Is free; you shall not hood her to your wrist, Nor sting her eyes, nor have her for your own In any fashion; beauty billed and kissed Is not your turtle; tread her like a dove - She loves you not; she never heard of love.