Best 8933 quotes in «song quotes» category

Our heavenly Father is great in mercy, He feeds and clothes us everyday, We will worship and humbly learn from him For our Lord clothes the grass of the field.

Over the boundary of time, Hope transcends, Desire sings, One verse, One song, And that is the song of happiness.

Pavlov’s dogs will drool at the site of any food, So go ahead and ring the bell, Sing a classical song about it and Then advertises what sells

People are like songs to me. About 60 seconds in, I'll know whether or not to add them to my 'favorites.

people change and promises are broken

Poetry without music may be beautiful, but music gives poetry wings and elevates it into song. That may be the reason for our love of song-it has wings and lifts us; with proper songs, it is a nourishing spiritual exercise.

Pure and soft, the melody is entrancing. Haunting. I’m glued to my seat, waiting, hoping for the next enthralling sound. I’d close my eyes if I weren’t afraid I’d miss a second of his performance.

Poets sing our human music for us.

Poetry is the language of the soul; Poetic Prose, the language of my heart. Each line must flow as in a song, and strike a chord that rings forever. To me, words are music!

Ravaged all, Bogo tabal Timore toron Totoo now gone...

Quiet birds rob the universe of beautiful symphonies.

reality has too many heads

Say what you want to say, and let the words fall out. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave!

Reese sucked in a breath and played faster, hurling the anger through his fingers until it spun all his fear, all his rage, into the gentle voice of music.

She always says I'm the best friend that she's ever had... how do you hang up on someone who needs you that bad? ~From 'Laura' on The Nylon Curtain

She shakily rushed towards the car to find Alecto casually standing beside it, smoking a cigarette and staring fixedly on the radio as it played the song 'Draggin’ the Line' by Tommy James, his expression thoughtful. “What are you thinking about?” Mandy questioned. “Wouldn’t the world be a very loud place to live if we said everything we thought?” Alecto asked quietly.

She said, 'People don't know what they like until they hear it. And that is the magic of music. Every song is a possibility, and all it takes is the right chord or the right beat and the heart is hooked.

She is now dancing with someone else to the song that reminded me of us.

She loves him so but he didn't stay. The wind can't blow this storm away.

She set out for revenge, to run them through, to do what an elf, an elf must do.” The next verse was Merill’s to improvise. “Climbed that roost, alighted right there. Made mush of his head for the onlooker bears.” “A two-pronger her prize, a meat most rare. Do-gooders will pay. Do-gooders will fear.” “Ballad of the loneliest ones,” lamented Merill. “The loneliest ones,” said Almi. She accepted that title; they were the loneliest. The elf gloomed.

she was a different person when she sang. Her singing was a deep, yearning subconscious desire to go back to a time when the Nepali identity wasn't sullied by external forces.

She was a poem and a painting too. Everything she said sounded like a song, every silence was the music too.

She wasn't really aware of the song as she sang it. Rather, she slipped through song's tunnel, down its corridor of reality, until she landed in the seat of the music. It was strangely healing; addictively powerful. She hadn't expected to become so engulfed by the notes.

She was only half Bird now, and the other half song. She liked it that way.

Sing before the spirits and dance with the earth deities And you will be able to compose your own tune. Then you and I, united, will clap hands joyously, Singing 'tum-tiddly-um tum-tiddly-um-tum.

Sing, laugh and be merry because today you're alive.

Sing through your grief. Don't let your thoughts weigh you down.

Sir, don’t make a bigger fool out of yourself because I promise you, if my car is not here when I leave service today . . . just pray for rapture.

Singers provide all the proof that we have souls.

Sing, then. Sing, indeed, with shoulders back, and head up so that song might go to the roof and beyond to the sky. Mass on mass of tone, with a hard edge, and rich with quality, every single note a carpet of colour woven from basso profundo, and basso, and baritone, and alto, and tenor, and soprano, and also mezzo, and contralto, singing and singing, until life and all things living are become a song. O, Voice of Man, organ of most lovely might.

Sing your own song. There are always some earnest listeners.

Sometimes it may seem dark, but the absence of the light is a necessary part.

Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was dying since the day they were born.

Sometimes I accidentally walk into the places where I and you had spoken before, existed before, which still have the smell of your memories, all of a sudden it starts feeling like I have entered a dark room without a door anywhere. Where I can always hear that song I used to love once before.

Sometimes I hear Mark laugh, and some days in the car the right song will come on the satellite radio and I'll feel him there tingling like a phantom limb. Like he's sitting there next to me in the dark. But I know that's not so. And I know that when you die there's not even darkness, and I know Mark and me won't meet on some cloud or in some pit of fire. And I guess that's a good thing. I couldn't take those eyes seeing what's become of me, those eyes looking down at my hands and my chewed-up ragged nails.

Sometimes the rain falls just for you and me to be the violin playing in the background of our loneliness's song.

Sometimes to get to God, first you gotta meet the Devil.

Song is song.

Songs are memories... Either u smile or get a tear in your eyes..

Somewhere a bird sang, its chant hanging plaintive and melancholy in the still air...I think it's a sort of lark or something. Our tradition has it that they sing with the voices of lost lovers. If the stars are smiling on them, you will hear its mate call back in a moment.

Song; an intangible medicine that heals both the body and the soul intangibly for a moment.

So when your hopes on fire, But you know your desire, Don't hold a glass over the flame, Don't let your heart grow cold, I will call you by name, I will share your road.

Split in two,” he sang, “Loved by one, and then another. Pulled in a direction and then the other. If I could breathe you in, all of you, every day of my life, it wouldn’t be enough. My heart was captive long ago — then you stole it away, you helped me grow. Now I’m staring at my crossroads with a choice to make, wondering how in the world I even thought there was one way to take.” His hands flew over the piano, muscles tightened in his forearms as he leaned forward and continued singing. “My biggest fear, is not the ending of this life, but going through it without you by my side.” He repeated the chorus and closed his eyes, humming the haunting melody in such a way that I felt hypnotized. “Letting her go will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do — but I’m doing it so I can say goodbye to her — and good morning to you. Tell me it’s not too late to ask for a second.” He smirked but continued singing. “Third, fourth, tenth date.” His hands slowed. “Loving you will always be easy because when I look into your eyes I know you see the real me, so be my love, be my rain, be my clouds, be my pain.” “My biggest fear, is not the ending of this life, but going through it without you by my side.” He stopped playing. The room fell silent.

The great error consists in supposing that poetry is an unnatural form of language. We should all like to speak poetry at the moment when we truly live, and if we do not speak it, it is because we have an impediment in our speech. It is not song that is the narrow or artificial thing, it is conversation that is a broken and stammering attempt at song. When we see men in a spiritual extravaganza, like Cyrano de Bergerac, speaking in rhyme, it is not our language disguised or distorted, but our language rounded and made whole.

Tears flood in you your eyes burning your heart scars with my name scratched deep My face is gone my heart betrayed by your lullabies I’m a shadow of a girl inside Hands are touching you nothing takes the place of you Heart wrench, weeps goodbye Lullabies, beautiful and trusting Barely breathing as they break into dust Lonely corners me Sweeps me off my feet Shows me it was better for me Fingertips holding close your grip not as soft Follows me to an empty bed I can’t stop the weakening of my soul my body is dying your tune is holding my mind Let me go see what I do No control No you You whisper your sweet goodbye If it is small it won’t interrupt my sleep But my heart you keep You say it’s for me But who would be happy? Alone left out in the cold

Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

The baker kneads; the weaver knits; The smithy plies the sun-bright steel; The potter turns; the farmer plants; The miller grinds his dusty meal. While I my quill in trembling hand Pen odes to please the fickle throng; The greatest craftsman of them all, Save only she who sings my song.

The birders I encountered in books and in the world shared little in common except this simple secret: if you listen to birds, every day will have a song in it.

The east says it's dawn My mouth speaks a yawn My bed clings to me and begs me to stay I hear a work song Say winter is long I peel myself up and then make away

The hand on my hair moved to my back, and I realized someone was singing softly. The voice was familiar, and something about it made my chest ache. Well, that was to be expected. Angels' songs would be awfully poignant. "'I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you...'" the voice crooned. I frowned. Was that really an appropriate song for the Heavenly Host to be--