Best 8933 quotes in «song quotes» category

You were born to rock, you'll never be an opera star.

You will certainly not be able to take the lead in all things yourself, for to one man a god has given deeds of war, and to another the dance, to another lyre and song, and in another wide-sounding Zeus puts a good mind.

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the LORD's renown, for an everlasting sign, which will not be destroyed.

You wind up listening to one song that you really like 30 times on YouTube and then you're done with it. That's the way it is.

You would never hear any song played twice in the same way. The words were retained, but within a certain frame there was great latitude, and the musician could improvise to his heart's content; and the more the variations and combinations, the greater the musician.

You will taste a way of life profoundly nourishing and from your tongue may spring a song or poem or sentence or word or maybe nothing but silence. Silence only the heart can turn to song.

You wind up creating from silence, like painting a picture on a blank canvas that could bring tears to somebody's eyes. As songwriters, our blank canvas is silence. Then we write a song from an idea that can change somebody's life. Songwriting is the closest thing to magic that we could ever experience. That's why I love songwriting.

Zen is not a philosophy, it is poetry. It does not propose, it simply persuades. It does not argue, it simply sings its own song.

You would think with all the genius and the brilliance of these times, we might find a higher purpose and a better use of mind.

You write a lot of bad songs before you write good ones. It takes time!

Ziri's soul felt like the high roaming wind of the Adelphas Mountains and the beat of stormhunters' wings, like the beautiful, mournful, eternal song of the wind flutes that had filled their caves with music he could not possibly remember. It felt like home.

Еach song is like starting over. Because somehow, no song's formula works for another. And that's the beauty of it all. Each song's destiny is embedded in its DNA. And our job is to reveal it.

ZZ Top did get a chance to play with Lightnin' Hopkins and Jimmy Reed, there's still that one, single song we just can't shake... J.B. Hutto's "Combination Boogie".

Aasha readied herself. In the other rooms, she heard her sisters squabbling over lost cosmetics and borrowed outfits, arguing over the philosophical merits of one poem compared to another. Their love and gentle fights had been the music of her life for so long. But beyond the tent, a different song called out to her.

A bad song for a night such as this, mayhap, but her heart went its own way without much interest in what her head thought or wanted; always had.

A bird never forgets the first song it sang.

A composer who can lift the spirit of a million people with a song, is a definite force for good.

Add a Melody to Your Lyrical Words, Add a Tune to Life's Situations, Let there be a Song! Beautiful, Romantic, Hip-Hop, Rap; Let there be a Moment one day, When we can Sing - Life, Remembering this is where we did Belong!

A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship. But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. -John Muir, naturalist, explorer, and writer (1838-1914)

Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro.

A good song touches the depths of the shyest heart and makes itself harmony resonate as a prayer.

Ah! keep my songs within your heart (The heart that holds the singer too), And never to the world impart The music only meant for you. Nor breathe one word, one tender word aloud, Lest it be heard by the cold-hearted crowd. To sing what only you can hear Will keep my heart in perfect tune; As sings the nightingale, when clear Above her shines the summer moon, And every tone of truthful love that flows Is heard alone by the enraptured rose.

A future as lonely as the surface of the moon and still just the sight of him feels like a homecoming, like a song I used to know but forgot.

A large American automobile came crawling close to us, and we could hear from behind its thick windows the deep bass of the radio, and the nasty words of a hateful song.It seemed like so much of modern music, a din to drive human beings mad.

A lark, caught in a hunter’s net Sang sweeter then than ever, As if the falling melody Might wing and net dissever At dusk the hunter took his prey, The lark his freedom never. All birds and men are sure to die But songs may live forever.

Algunas cosas no duran para siempre, pero otras sí. Como una buena canción, o un buen libro, o un buen recuerdo que se puede recuperar y contemplar en los malos momentos..

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

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...

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.

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.

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

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

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 my hopes they are high I must keep them small

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

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

...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)

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.

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