Best 8933 quotes in «song quotes» category

A little light in the dark night A faint voice is calling you This way! This way! This flickering, wavering little voice Like dew, like a bonfire The voice of insects the sound of the water You can never lose them once you've heard them...

All my friends are bums. We all gather round our camp-fire (in a can) and sing songs of togetherness as we cuddle, to preserve our warmth...

All of the people took it up and sung it over and over until it was wrung dry, and no further innovations of tone and tempo were conceivable. Then they hushed and ate barbecue.

All people are musicians" Wit countered. "The question is whether or not they share their songs.

All the little duckies with their heads in the water Heads in the water All the little duckies with their heads in the water Oh, such sweet little duckies.

Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song The force, the charm that to thy voice belong; Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way, To nerve my country with the patriot lay, To teach all men where all their interest lies, How rulers may be just and nations wise: Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee, Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.

Although it was only a single instrument, each note had the peculiar echoed quality of a thousand harmonics voiced together. There was a whisper behind the strongest note and a shout beneath the softest, and they sang of far off places in long forgotten times. There were no words, but the images of ancient pride, noble heritage, and castles in the sand were imagined from the progression. This was the song that would be played at the birth of a nation, full of hope and promise of better days ahead. This was the song of the end of days with all love and longing lost beyond recall or desire. Farris could see this song playing at her wedding, or her funeral, as a herald of joy and sorrow. She found tears in her eyes and heard herself laugh, and she couldn’t say why she was doing either. Her skin was tense and covered with goosebumps, and she shivered with pleasure.

...a morte estava a provocá-los, cantando-lhes em suspiros e silêncios uma canção de ninar que tinha eco nos corações. Memento mori.

And Esme remembered in a rush--the wolfsong, the haunting, lyrical spirals of it in the dawn quiet and the feeling of euphoria that had attended it. Even in recollection the howling uplifted her like the crescendo at the end of a symphony and made her heartbeat quicken.

And he has a Poet,but you are unlucky to hear that Pensive song.

And I'm not saying it's a bad song, you know, or anything like that. All I'm saying is that if you get, I don't know, a broom, say, and dip it in some brake fluid, put the other end up my arse, stick me on a trampoline in a moving lift, and I would write a better song on the walls. That's all I'm saying.

And I waited for the sun to rise - as it always had, like a song from the night.

And she sang. Perhaps she'd never stop, for it was rather freeing, this blissful, empowered place where she was nothing but rhythm and resonance.

And my hopes they are high I must keep them small

And now the measure of my song is done: The work has reached its end; the book is mine, None shall unwrite these words: nor angry Jove, Nor war, nor fire, nor flood, Nor venomous time that eats our lives away. Then let that morning come, as come it will, When this disguise I carry shall be no more, And all the treacherous years of life undone, And yet my name shall rise to heavenly music, The deathless music of the circling stars. As long as Rome is the Eternal City These lines shall echo from the lips of men, As long as poetry speaks truth on earth, That immortality is mine to wear.

And so the Wolf of the West rose from the stone! And so he will rise again if ever the folk of the Six Duchies call to him in need.

And stay, my dear stay... forever, as my quiet song, in my lilac dawn.

And tonight I'm feelin like an astronaut, sending sos from this tiny box,and i lost the signal when i lifted off, now i'm stuck up here and the world forgot, can i please come down? Cuz i'm tired of drifting round and round....can i please come down? Now I lie awake and scream in my zero gravity...and its starting to weigh down on me....lets abort this mission now....CAN I PLEASE COME DOWN? So tonight I'm calling all the astronauts, all the lonely people that the world forgot, if you hear my voice, come pick me up, cuz ur all i've got...

And what if there are no damsels in distress? What if I knew that, and I called your bluff? Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down, whether or not you ever show up?

...And yet a knowledge is here that tenses the throat as for song: the inheritance of the ones, alive or once alive, who stand behind the ones I have imagined, who took into their minds the troubles of this place, blights of love and race, but saw a good fate here and willingly paid its cost, kept it the best they could, thought of its good, and mourned the good they lost. (From the ending of Where in Clearing, p179)

And when all your faith is gone let it be me, if it's a friend you need let it be me

A poet can imagine an iceberg singing a melancholic song while the world leaders find it difficult to imagine proper solution to global warming.

Anna's voice wasn't a beautiful voice - rough edged and sorrowful, a bit used, somehow male and female at once. Yet it had more vibrancy to it than most Danish voices, which were often thin and white and too pretty to trigger a shiver. Anna's voice had the heat of the south; it warmed Einar, as if her throat were red with coals.

A poem shouldn't just give melody; it should give meaning.

Are you, are you Coming to the tree They strung up a man They say who murdered three. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree. Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where the dead man called out For his love to flee. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree. Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I told you to run, So we'd both be free. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree. Are you, are you Coming to the tree Wear a necklace of rope, Side by side with me. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met at midnight In the hanging tree.

A smile is a song from the heart; a tear is a letter from the soul.

Artistes breathe and dream creativity!

Ascend, may you find so resistance Just know that you made such a difference All you leave behind will live to the end The cycle of suffering goes on But memories of you stay strong Some day I too will fly and find you again

A song she heard Of cold that gathers Like winter's tongue Among the shadows It rose like blackness In the sky That on volcano's Vomit rise A Stone of ruin From burn to chill Like black moonrise Her voice fell still...

Ashes have no fear to burn in hell In your heart's paradise angels dwell Rib cage fastens all sins of the wrong Your bones will sing you mortality’s song

As he stood up and gathered his attaché case and notebook, I reminded him that it had already been three weeks -- and counting.

A song, a beautiful song sings in my soul and heart. Religious Leader Petra Cecilia Maria Hermans The Religion Of The Blue Circle

A theology that cannot be sung is not worth having.... Authentic Christian faith is not merely believed. Nor is it merely acted upon. It is sung - with utter joy sometimes, in uncontrollable tears sometimes, but it is sung.

A tapping foot isn’t the best a listener can get from a song: A good song makes a listener dance. A great song makes him think.

Beautiful songs and voice echo in my heart.

At that moment a solitary violin struck up. But the music was not dance music; it was more like a song - a solemn, sweet song. (I know now that it was Beethoven's Romance in F.) I listened, and suddenly it was as if the fog that surrounded me had been penetrated, as if I were being spoken to.

Ava sang to remind them of what was important – the things that mattered in their lives. She sang about the love of hearth and home; the fire at night in the fireplace; dinner warm on the table; a caring wife and hard-working husband who relied on each other for everything; of babies still in their cradles; toddlers climbing on knees wanting to be cuddled; of teenage boys and girls helping their parents run the homestead. She sang of warm summers and cozy winters with lots of heavy blankets; of harmony and love; well-being and gratitude for the harvest - for the bounty by which they all lived. She sang of the joy of a new life; the births of their children; the enduring love in the twilight of old age between a man and his wife - the years behind them like the building blocks of an enormous castle.

Be a song in someone's heart.

... because one day, maybe one day, if I learned how to write clear enough, sing loud enough, be strong enough, I could explain myself in a way that made sense and then maybe one day, one day, someone out there would hear and recognise her or himself and I could let them know that they are not alone. Just like that song I had on repeat for several nights as I walked lonely on empty streets, let me know that I was not alone and that’s how it starts.

Blue skies Smiling at me Nothing but blue skies Do I see Bluebirds Singing a song Nothing but bluebirds All day long Never saw the sun shining so bright Never saw things going so right Noticing the days hurrying by When you're in love, my how they fly Blue days All of them gone Nothing but blue skies From now on I never saw the sun shining so bright Never saw things going oh-so right Noticing the days hurrying by When you're in love, my how they fly Blue days All of them gone Nothing but blue skies From now on Songwriter: Irving Berlin

Best of all is to preserve everything in a pure, still heart, and let there be for every pulse a thanksgiving, and for every breath a song.

Birds are sensitive to mispronunciation, even more sensitive than the French.

Be music always. Keep changing the keys, tones, pitch, and volume of each of the songs you create along your life's journey and play on.

But unlike sirens, selkies don't mean any harm with their songs. They don't sing to seduce or to kill. Their songs have nothing to do with anyone but themselves. They sing for the simple joy of it, and because of that, I imagine their songs are more beautiful than those of any siren.

But his singing was unconscious and irrepressible - an expression of his native exuberance, the dreamy, buoyant soundtrack running through his head.

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, You'll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say Ave there for me, And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me, And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be, For you will bend and tell me that you love me, And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me

Come thaw my frozen heart, my little arctic kitten.” Unable to resist, Aria jumped in and picked up the next line. “No chance, my yeti man, I’d rather be frostbitten.” “Let me be your snowman. Come live in my igloo.” “I’d rather freeze to death than hibernate with you.

Come back to me. Where have you gone? And why so long? I miss the star below your lip, the constellation on your chest. I miss your ways, how you net butter-flying words and release them for others to enjoy. I miss your tenderness, the sweetness of your breath and the song of your voice. I miss how you worship me. Come back to me once more. Why did you go? And whatever for? The heavens plotted against us. The clouds came and pissed on our lives. The smell of charged particles still lingers in the air. What will become of you and I? Come back to us.

Do not conceale thy heavenly voice, Which makes the hearts of Gods rejoyce, Least Musicke hearing no such thing, The Nightingale forget to sing.

Constipation ran Presley's life. Even his famous motto TCB— 'Taking Care of Business'— sounds like a reference to bathroom matters.