Song Quotes - Page 4

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn’t even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrowfor I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspiredbut empty and weary from drinking too much at all timesand I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speakfor I don’t speak muchat alland my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too muchor not at alland never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am nota poembut an elegyat my bestbut unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there’s only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I’m pretty fine with that,but others are not.

Holding you in my arms always feels like holding a musical instrument that I love the most, moving my fingers on your skin feels like playing it. And my soul closes its eyes and starts singing along with the music I start creating.

Do you think we make sad things into songs in order to hold on to the sadness or to banish it—I think it is to banish the sadness. So then if you write a happy song, is it not sadder than a sad song because by making it you have banished your own happiness into a song?

He knew how to construct a song out of the nothing of day-to-day life and how to sing that nothing into a song so beautiful that it could sustain the vision of a whole and better world.

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.

The sky blue strengthens slowly, the dawn light rosy and pale the summer song of our romance begin to unveil...with every heart beat and the waves' breath...the time stood in harmony still. Your morning kiss my hands could feel...by your lips soft, so warm, so very gentle, nice and full of life...

Every day is getting worseDo the same things and they hurtI don't know if I should cryAll I know is that I'm tryin' I wanna believe in you, I wanna believe in you So why can't you be, be good to me....

There were things I'd never do again, but then, they'd always seemed right.

What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:It listens, listens. Taller trees beyondListen. The moon at the unruffled pondStares. And you sing, you sing.That star-enchanted song falls through the airFrom lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;And all the night you sing.My dreams are flowers to which you are a beeAs all night long I listen, and my brainReceives your song, then loses it againIn moonlight on the lawn.Now is your voice a marble high and white,Then like a mist on fields of paradise,Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,Then breaks, and it is dawn.

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.

I knew it was Peter playing. I fancied he was trying to tell me something - an absurd idea, but it persisted - 'I may not be able to spell, but just you listen to this.

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.

. . .where there is no more hope, song remains.

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

If you want people to dance to your tune, sing beautiful songs.

Blue skiesSmiling at meNothing but blue skiesDo I seeBluebirdsSinging a songNothing but bluebirdsAll day longNever saw the sun shining so brightNever saw things going so rightNoticing the days hurrying byWhen you're in love, my how they flyBlue daysAll of them goneNothing but blue skiesFrom now onI never saw the sun shining so brightNever saw things going oh-so rightNoticing the days hurrying byWhen you're in love, my how they flyBlue daysAll of them goneNothing but blue skiesFrom now onSongwriter: Irving Berlin

When all that you've tried, leaves nothing but holes inside.

Just take my hand, lead, dance with me...and I will simply follow the blueness of the water, the white waves rolling free...where the earth beneath my feet and stars make my heart whole again...in long and priceless moments of shared solitude...

I'm not supposed to miss you, I'm not supposed to care

Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people, and finally I did on the open road.We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore, except to make our lives into a work of art.

Listen in close, Wall Street Conquistadors, you’re spreading like vapor up through people’s floors, you’re moving en masse under the cracks of our doors and grabbing our children to work in your stores, feeding the needy to make them your whores, but you need to remember the grave you’re digging is yours.

To know if someone can speak offensively or politely, don’t give him poem to recite; don’t give him a song to sing. Just engage him in an argument and you will know it for yourself who he is.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'stBut in his motion like an angel sings,Still quiring [making music] to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls,But whilst this muddy vesture of decayDoth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.

Consider my Lover; the yellow churchof his skin, the clean wells of his ears;How the notes of a song come to himlike birds descending on a power line;How in his absence I am of twothroats--each of them cramped.

Without a song, life is a sorrow.

Music shouldn't be just a tune, it should be a touch.

There is no failure here sweetheart, just when you quit.

. . . to my surprise I began to know what The Language was about, not just the part we were singing now but the whole poem. It began with the praise and joy in all creation, copying the voice of the wind and the sea. It described sun and moon, stars and clouds, birth and death, winter and spring, the essence of fish, bird, animal, and man. It spoke in what seemed to be the language of each creature. . . . It spoke of well, spring, and stream, of the seed that comes from the loins of a male creature and of the embryo that grows in the womb of the female. It pictured the dry seed deep in the dark earth, feeling the rain and the warmth seeping down to it. It sang of the green shoot and of the tawny heads of harvest grain standing out in the field under the great moon. It described the chrysalis that turns into a golden butterfly, the eggs that break to let out the fluffy bird life within, the birth pangs of woman and of beast. It went on to speak of the dark ferocity of the creatures that pounce upon their prey and plunge their teeth into it--it spoke in the muffled voice of bear and wolf--it sang the song of the great hawks and eagles and owls until their wild faces seemed to be staring into mine, and I knew myself as wild as they. It sang the minor chords of pain and sickness, of injury and old age; for a few moments I felt I was an old woman with age heavy upon me.

Singing the songs, writing the lyrics, emotioning the words; that is all I can do for love.

My favourite songs from literally all my favourite albums are usually always track 10. Coincidence? Conspiracy? Illuminati? Time will tell.

The worst things in life come free to us

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

Owls hoot in B flat, cuckoos in D, but the water ousel sings in the voice of the stream. She builds her nest back of the waterfalls so the water is a lullaby to the little ones. Must be where they learn it.

To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying,The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.West, west away, the round sun is falling, Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling, The voices of my people that have gone before me? I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;For our days are ending and our years failing.I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever!

Courtesy, not control, that was His means. Just as He requested the stars to sing and they leapt into bright being, so request was to be their rule over bird and beast, seas and trees, mountains and moons and all the dancing distances between the heavenlies filled with the unending song of Creation.

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.

Life is not a battle to win but a melody to sing.

Love it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you. It will set your free.

Listen to the sunset...see its pretty hue... When you see it, think of me...and I'll think of you...

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

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

Songwriters write songs, but they really belong to the listener.

The living take a part of the dead with them, carrying them around in their minds, like a song that lingers after the music has been turned off.

Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting If I could hear his heart softly pounding Yes, and only if he was lying by me Would I lie in my bed once again.

This is my one last call and lullaby for this eternity. All of my medicine.

If I cannot fly, let me sing.

When we feel, a kind of lyric is sung in our heart. When we think, a kind of music is played in our mind. In harmony, both create a beautiful symphony of life.

A song is the exultation of the mind dwelling on eternal things, bursting forth in the voice.

Love conquers all," murmured Kim. "I heard it in a song, so it must be true.

My country, 'tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty,Of thee I sing;Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrims' pride,From every mountainsideLet freedom ring!My native country, thee,Land of the noble free,Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills;My heart with rapture thrills,Like that above.Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom's song;Let mortal tongues awake;Let all that breathe partake;Let rocks their silence break,The sound prolong.Our father's God to Thee,Author of liberty,To Thee we sing.Long may our land be bright,With freedom's holy light,Protect us by Thy might,Great God our King.

This is how it works: you're young until you're not. You love until you don't, you try until you can't, you laugh until you cry, you cry until you laugh. And everyone must breathe until their dying breath. This is how it works: you peer inside yourself, you take the things you like and try to love the things you don't. And then you take that love you make and stick it into someone else's heart pumping someone else's blood.

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.

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.

It was generally believed, said Theophilus, that Orpheus learned his music from the birds. His small voice, piping after theirs, filled with all the secret stories of the earth.

A song should stand on its own and on what a singer does with it. It shouldn't need a lot of extra help to be good.

Just one caress became a symphony of passion, insatiable longing, an unquenchable desire to possess.... Gasps... The sparkling touch, embrace make hard to breathe... A mere short burst of brilliance, explosive need...forbidden sweet... Beneath the warmth of a dancing rainbow summer sunset, slowly tuning into the magic night with the stars flooding the sapphire skies...the sacred emerald island wildlife listens to our song, played with loving fingertips, reflected in diving deep into each other's ocean eyes...

Treat a sick man with the medicine and a sad man with the music.

Daughter, daughter, shining brightPrecious jewel within mine sightOh, if I could soar with theeAs you seek your destiny.To see with you the caves and skiesVistas grand beneath your eyesTaking wing to horizons newLet us wonder who waits for you.A dragon bright?A dragon dark?Victor of duels with battle mark?A dragon strong?A dragon keen?Singer of honors and triumphs seen?Red, Gold, Bronze, and BlueTo your lord you shall be true,Copper, Silver, Black, and White,Who will win your mating flight?For in your hearts our future restsTo see our line with hatchlings blessedAnd for those who threaten clutch of flame,To feel the wrath of dragon-dame.

But you're so busy changing the worldJust one smile can change all of mine