Song Quotes

And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.

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.

As long as I can be with you, even my digital heart will start to throb. Like a quantum wind, my heart will start to sway.

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.

I'll be your mess, you be mineThat was the deal that we had signed

Every man needs his Siren To check his courage and strength When he hears her song In his travels through the unknown.

We are nothing but shadows Fading away Trying to hold on to This bittersweet life That we call our own...

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?

Your heart plays a song like a broken music box, but nothing ever sounded quite so beautiful to me. Together, in the dance of wounded-wing swans we’ll rise above the ruins, melting into the golden light.

Things perish. Gods have passed.But song sublimely castShall citadels outlast.

From attraction and affectionCover of perfectionFailure beyond texture to a painful lessonEverything that was from the start wasn't from the heart

The demon at length fell to singing a gentle, flickering little song. It was not in any language Sophie knew - or she thought not, until she distinctly heard the word "saucepan" in it several times...

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.

I'm a peasantI'm the muzhikA pest you're destined to play the musicAnd yes it's pleasant to say it's beauty I'mIndebted to rest respecting it truly

And when at last I find you your song will fill the air.

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.

He was a strong and noble lord with piercing eyes of grey. He sat upon his noble throne shining like the dawn. His sword flashed like the brightest star. He led our people well. Yet here and now he lays in blood pierced with arrows. He was the friend of many knights. He loved the warrior games. His heart was won by a lady fair for marriage they did wait. A kindly prince, his duty carried him to another's bed. And on her death true love returned, finally they wed. He felt the grief of children lost to murder and to pain. I was the youngest of his blood. I'll never be the same. Here lays my father and my lord. I know not what to say. Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day. Here lays my father and my lord. I know not what to say. Except my father and my lord was slain here on this day….

I thought I could let you goI thought that you could leave and knowThe time we took would fadeBut I’m colder than the bed where we layYou let go if you like, I’ll hold onSay no all you want, I’m not doneBaby, I promise youDid you think I’d let you go?That’s never happening and now you knowTake your time, I’ll waitRegretting every last thing I said

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.

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

When “Here Comes the Sun” started, what happened? No, the sun didn’t come out, but Mom opened up like the sun breaking through the clouds. You know how in the first few notes of that song, there’s something about George’s guitar that’s just so hopeful? It was like when Mom sang, she was full of hope, too. She even got the irregular clapping right during the guitar solo. When the song was over, she paused it.“Oh, Bee,” she said. “This song reminds me of you.” She had tears in her eyes.

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.

If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t listen to that song anymore. But you can’t get away from yourself. You can’t decide not to see yourself anymore. You can’t decide to turn off the noise in you head.

Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear

Right from the start, you were a thief, you stole my heart.

Nothing softens the heart like a song.

The primary purpose of prayer is not to make requests. The primary purpose is to praise, to sing, to chant. Because the essence of prayer is a song, and man cannot live without a song. Prayer may not save us. But prayer may make us worthy of being saved.

How could we be sorrow, if there is a song?

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.

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.

There is a fragrance in the air, a certain passage of a song, an old photograph falling out from the pages of a book, the sound of somebody's voice in the hall that makes your heart leap and fills your eyes with tears. Who can say when or how it will be that something easters up out of the dimness to remind us of a time before we were born and after we will die?

I drew a chair up beside her and sang. All I do is dream of you the whole night through . . . It was a horrible rendition, and I quite enjoyed attempting it, setting the notes free from the song as each one went farther and farther astray.

Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.

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

Life, he realize, was much like a song. In the beginning there is mystery, in the end there is confirmation, but it's in the middle where all the emotion resides to make the whole thing worthwhile.

If you are kind enough today, history will sing your song and be kind to you.

And then the great music of which the world is made took him over, beyond thought, beyond control until he heard her cry his name and they fell together off the edge of the world.

The guitar poured out its soul, its history, its dreams, its pain, its victories, its secrets. The guitar’s strings purred with blues and ended with a haunting solitary song with no lyrics.

If I’m not around I hope you’ll remember me and together we will hold on to our favorite song.

There's always a siren, singing you to shipwreck. Some of us may be more susceptible than others are, but there's always a siren. It may be with us all our lives, or it may be many years or decades before we find it or it finds us. But when it does find us, if we're lucky we're Odysseus tied up to the ship's mast, hearing the song with perfect clarity, but ferried to safety by a crew whose ears have been plugged with beeswax. If we're not at all lucky, we're another sort of sailor stepping off the deck to drown in the sea.

In time of rain I come:I can sing among the flowers:I utter my song: my heart is glad.Water of flowers foams over the earth:My heart was intoxicated.

Sing a Song before you can Sing some Song ~

There is a song in your heart, only you can hear it. In silence, that is the song of longing and love.

JAMIE'S SONG 'UN-BROKE':Un-broke and,All is well.I did not expect that.Unspoken,All I felt.I should not have done that.But now that is all behind me.Something else, something more defines me.I could be scattered all over the world again,And I would still be me.Find my way back here again.Though I don’t think that could happen, I feel so unbreakable,Now that I am un-broke.Like the wind,I floated. I could not change one thing.Like the trees,I stood there.Branches swayed bare in Spring.My darkest days are behind me.Blinding sun and stars always find me.I could be shattered into the abyss again,But I would still be free.Climb out of the hole again.I’ll see the skies that never darken. I know I’m unbreakable, Now that I am un-broke.

Who are you?Are you in touch with all of your darkest fantasies?Have you created a life for yourself where you can experience them?I have. I am fucking crazy.But I am free.

There are three things, and three things only, that can lift the pain of mortality and ease the ravages of life,” said Spider. “These things are wine, women and song"..."Curry’s nice too" pointed out Fat Charlie

Make your book of life a musical. Never abandon obligations, but have fun leaving behind a colorful legacy. Never allow anybody to be the composer of your own destiny. Take control of your life, and never allow limitations implanted by society tell you how your music is supposed to sound — or how your book is supposed to be written.

When I write I like to give equal justice to lyrics, too. I want the song to have meaning for me so I can make it have meaning for the audience.

Your life is a movie. You are the main character. You say your scripts and act to your lines. Of course you do your lines in each scene. There is a hidden camera and a director who you can ask for help anytime up above.

I have to admit. Saying goodbye—leaving Bonnie. Was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my entire life. It actually hurt…

In the absence of organized religion, faith abounds, in the form of song and art and food and strong arms.

During certain periods of our lives, we may listen to a particular song that touches our hearts so much that we end up repeating the song for the umpteenth time. My question is, how would you know the next song will also touch your heart if you don't allow the playlist to flow? This happens to us in real life; sometimes we get too comfortable with one thing such that we don't allow for other experiences and opportunities.

Sed paused in his song, feeling ridiculous for singing it to her while they made love.“Baby, you realize this song is about Trey’s dead dog, don’t you?

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

In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love come to life again and fill it with majesty and exaltation. And those who come together in the nights and are entwined in rocking delight perform a solemn task and gather sweetness, depth, and strength for the song of some future poet, who will appear in order to say ecstasies that are unsayable.

Why be alone when we can be together babyYou can make my life worthwhileAnd I can make you start to smile

You dance love, and you dance joy, and you dance dreams. And I know if I can make you smile by jumping over a couple of couches or running through a rainstorm, then I'll be very glad to be a song and dance man.

You held me down, but I got upHey!Alrighty brushing off the dust You hear my voice You hear that soundLike thunder gonna shake the ground-Roar

I wasn't used to be these weak before. But the day I saw you, it felt like somebody was punching me very hard on my chest. It was hard to breathe, it was hard to sleep. With your name echoing in my mind all the time. Like somebody was singing a song to me, that no one else heard. It was the first time I realised how beautiful it is to be weak.

Musicians do not get on stage without hearing the song singing inside of them. Poets do not write as if they are jotting down a sermon, they see everything in their subconscious before presenting it to the conscious, which they later turn to  readable materials. Artist do not draw and paint without painting in dream states, trance, or see an art form that others do not see. Being creative does not calls for being any supernatural entity, but in creating with the entities inside of you.