Best 98 quotes in «rhyme quotes» category

If the heart doesn't find a perfect rhyme with the head, then your passion means nothing. The OKR framework cultivates the madness, the chemistry contained inside. It gives us an environment for risk, for trust, where falling is not a fireable offense- you know, a safe place to be yourself. And when you have that sort of structure and environment, and the right people, magic is around the corner.

Halt glared at his friend as the whistling continued. 'I had hoped that your new sense of responsibly would put an end to that painful shrieking noise you make between your lips' he said. Crowley smiled. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling at peace with the world. And that meant he was more than ready to tease Halt 'It's a jaunty song' 'What's jaunty about it?' Halt asked, grim faced. Crowley made an uncertain gesture as he sought for an answer to that question. 'I suppose it's the subject matter' he said eventually. 'It's a very cheerful song. Would you like me to sing it for you?' 'N-' Halt began but he was too late, as Crowley began to sing. He had a pleasant tenor voice, in fact, and his rendering of the song was quite good. But to Halt it was as attractive as a rusty barn door squeaking. 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady-o' 'Whoa! Whoa!' Halt said 'He met a lovely lady-o?' Halt repeated sarcastically 'What in the name of all that's holy is a lady-o?' 'It's a lady' Crowley told him patiently. 'Then why not sing 'he met a lovely lady'?' Halt wanted to know. Crowley frowned as if the answer was blatantly obvious. "Because he's from Palladio, as the song says. It's a city on the continent, in the southern part of Toscana.' 'And people there have lady-o's, instead of ladies?' Asked Halt 'No. They have ladies, like everyone else. But 'lady' doesn't rhyme with Palladio, does it? I could hardly sing, 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met his lovely lady', could I?' 'It would make more sense if you did' Halt insisted 'But it wouldn't rhyme' Crowley told him. 'Would that be so bad?' 'Yes! A song has to rhyme or it isn't a proper song. It has to be lady-o. It's called poetic license.' 'It's poetic license to make up a word that doesn't exist and which, by the way, sound extremely silly?' Halt asked. Crowley shook his head 'No. It's poetic license to make sure that the two lines rhyme with each other' Halt thought for a few seconds, his eyes knitted close together. Then inspiration struck him. 'Well then couldn't you sing 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so...'?' 'So what?' Crowley challenged Halt made and uncertain gesture with his hands as he sought more inspiration. Then he replied. 'He met a lovely lady, so...he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb.' 'A leg of lamb? Why would she want a leg of lamb?' Crowley demanded Halt shrugged 'Maybe she was hungry

Every little or big problem has a reason, Every year there is a winter season, Every trouble goes away with time, After winter spring comes with rhyme.

From attraction and affection Cover of perfection Failure beyond texture to a painful lesson Everything that was from the start wasn't from the heart

Dead grass is awakened by fire, dead earth is awakened by rain. One life will give way to another, the cycle will begin again.

I feel a little dizzy," said Orion. "But also wonderfully elated. I feel that I am on the verge of finding a rhyme for the word orange." "Oxygen deprivation," said Foaly. "Or maybe it's just him.

I must go down to the sea...to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by......

I, Larry Vail, do hereby confess To murdering Merry in her little dress. To strangling and raping and making a mess. To all of these charges the answer is yes.

It demands desire of Zulykha Loyalty of Angels Vehemence of devils And patience of Prophet You may too need God's mouth To reveal rhyming letters

I’ve been worried since I left the womb Like a schizophrenic on shrooms Like a hypochondriac on crack Never shy with the panic attacks; Internal reality succumbs to psychosis Dreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.

I might not rhyme like others would— in your mind. But at the end, I promise— I'll make sense to you.

Love frees us of all pain, or of any restraint. Once a circle that ever widens without end. Various colors it shines in our lives to paint Excelsis, glorious manifestation to befriend.

Love is like wine, drink it as you rhyme.

Sealing your lips makes your eyes talk Truth creeps beneath your lame feet’s walk Knees stiffen when blood vessels stalk A pounding heart’s lies hard as rock

Some people imagine that rhyme interferes with the rational processes of thought by obliging us to distort what we originally had in mind. But are rational processes so important? In many of us, even in poets, they can be dull and predictable. An interruption, a few detours and unexpected turns, might make a trip with them less routine. The necessity of finding a rhyme may jolt the mind out of its ruts, force it to turn wildly across the fields in some more exhilarating direction. Force it out of the world of reason into the world of mystery, magic, and imagination, in which relationships between sounds may be as exciting as a Great Idea.

That weekend my people brought home a big eared gray scrawny kit. He was so loud and annoying that I did not like him one bit.

The Buried Bishop’s a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: ‘Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth’; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; ‘Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?’; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; ‘Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas’; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke — ‘Have you heard the news about Schrodinger’s Cat? It died today; wait — it didn’t, did, didn’t, did…’; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond … Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths’; and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers…power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast — I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, ‘Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?’; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.

The Days were a clan that mighta lived long But Ben Day’s head got screwed on wrong That boy craved dark Satan’s power So he killed his family in one nasty hour Little Michelle he strangled in the night Then chopped up Debby: a bloody sight Mother Patty he saved for last Blew off her head with a shotgun blast Baby Libby somehow survived But to live through that ain’t much a life —SCHOOLYARD RHYME, CIRCA 1985

The garden was full of sorrow Songbirds and unusual winds whistled a rhyme Clouds caused to appear and cast down darkness For this was the first day the sun didn't shine

If I knew what to do I'd do more than write a song for you

It is not until you rhyme with a person that makes you their perfect match, it is when you are satisfied with each others peculiarities, and find jewels in their loopholes.

It’s a poem, of our love, that doesn’t rhyme. A story, never meant to have, a happy end.

My dogs have barked at a beggar tonight and he proves a prince of starlight.

Oh I know it's cliché but yeah they say that great men make it in- To places few others who even do take the risk've ever been

One little Indian left all alone, he went out and hanged himself and then there were none.

On the steps leading to a door was a scrub brush that was blue. I snatched it quick and ran for home because it was just the thing to chew.

Princess, princess, youngest daughter, Open up and let me in! Or else your promise by the water Isn’t worth a rusty pin. Keep your promise, royal daughter, Open up and let me in!

See I woke up to this God-body movement, three eyes wide open to this God-mind blueprint. The dynamic of this climax at the peak of a God-conscious is what I seek. Subliminally, I speak fluent, 10 figure mind, I just do it. Life unravels its turmoils and these pen to paper sessions ease my pain and free my mind as I watch the rain, looking through the souls window for a sign. Take you pass the senses into the sixth, take you into a place of paradise and bliss in all but only a few notice.

Shani Chalisa ॥दोहा॥ Doha जय-जय श्री शनिदेव प्रभु, सुनहु विनय महराज। करहुं कृपा हे रवि तनय, राखहु जन की लाज॥ Shani Maharaj, glory to you with sincerity, Listen to my prayers I request humbly, Bestow your grace and protect me fully, Keep respect and honour of your devotees. - 341 -

She's my pride, my winning prize, always a surprise, to look into her eyes, see her free soul, as soap that slips from the grip of control; a stroll through the park on a dark night with stars to spark the sky, heaven with no price tag I realize, love is the same: endless, priceless, full bliss; to have this princess I pinch myself thinking this is a dream, but to my reprise, I can only say I am now, at last, alive.

Toilet paper unrolled and slithered then wrapped around my tummy. That paper tried to roll me up into an Egyptian mummy.

What is this love that makes me see beauty, and makes every beautiful thing bring you back to me? What is this love that makes me declare 'I love you' even though I uttered it only a moment ago? What is this love that keeps growing even when my chest is sore and it hurts to love you any more? Tell me: How am I to find what this love is when it was the one to find you, me, this verse, and this universe?

When we step in the name of love, we cannot rhyme if we don't have the same RHYTHM, and we cannot have the same rhythm if we are not listening to the same BEAT. It takes someone who understands the rhythm and melody of your "heartbeat" to dance to it.

Wherever you go in the next catastrophé Be it sickroom, or prison, or cemet’ry Do not fear that your stay will be solit’ry Countless souls share your fate, you’ll have company!

Witches, he thought. Always rhyming.

You ask me why I don't speak Not a word at will But write so much worth well over a mill' Well I value words like I value kisses A sober one, a closer one penetrates the heart Darling it's how it mends it

Words like wistfully and sublime are penned into prose and rhyme. As night gives way to dawn, life gives way to time

Yan, tan, tethera, pethera, pimp, Sethera, lethera, hovera, covera, dik; Yan-a-dik, tan-a-dik, tethera-dik, pethera-dik, bumfit, Yan-a-bumfit, tan-a-bumfit, tethera-bumfit, pethera-bumfit, figgit.

You can get lost in any library, no matter the size. But the more lost you are, the more things you'll find.

Children seem naturally drawn to poetry - it's some combination of the rhyme, rhythm, and the words themselves.

And of all glad words of prose or rhyme, The gladdest are Act while there yet is time

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

Call me the rap assassinator / rhymes rugged and built like Schwarzenegger

True love finds its own ways To spread goodness, always.

A rhyme doesn't make a song.

I aint choose to rhyme, Rhyming chose me.

Does anyone know a word that rhymes with shark?

I mean, when it's time to rhyme rhyme, I can get down for mine.

I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.

I have always wanted to midcourse-correct (or undermine) in a poem, and let that be the turn. That poem is to do with displacement, with almosts - even the rhymes are intentionally off.