Quotes About Soul

After a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its organs, rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again what noble life it can make.

Music!—who loves it not? who has not felt his soul soothed and softened by its sweet influence?

Take a music-bath once or twice a week for a few seasons, and you will find that it is to the soul what the water-bath is to the body.

Music is what feelings sound like.

Music is what life sounds like.

[M]ore than anything else rhythm and harmony find their way into the secret places of the soul.

The bones of music are the universal rhythms within us all.

A wolf howls his soul into the misty night. The moon answers with glowing silence.

Ah, September! You are the doorway to the season that awakens my soul... but I must confess that I love you only because you are a prelude to my beloved October.

Passion is oxygen for the soul.

In your patience possess ye your souls.

To me, it seems a dreadful indignity to have a soul controlled by geography.

When you photograph people in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in B&W, you photograph their souls!

Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. Virgil, if I remember right, refers to it several times, but with too much Roman restraint. He does not let himself go on cheese. Except Virgil and the anonymous rhymer of "If all the trees were bread and cheese," I can recall no verse about cheese. Yet it has every quality which we require in exalted poetry. It is a short, strong word, and it rhymes to "breeze" and "seas." Cheese has also variety, the very soul of song.

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety on the chords of emotion — a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have that condition by fits only.

A poet cannot stop writing poems — an ink-stained soul compels his obsession.

If a poet writes in gibberish, his soul yet understands.

Poetry is an inky soulprint.

Poetry treks through our souls and tells us in rhyme of the adventure.

A poet is a lone wolf howling soul at impossible questions— Poetry is the answer.

My poetry, I should think, has become the way of my giving out what music is within me.

Poetry and love can calculate past infinity.

When we pray, our hearts glow a glorious joy that lights our souls and all the world around us.

...prayer draws us near to our own souls, and purifies our thoughts.