Quotes
Quotes about Songs
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms;
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms.
I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
On the beryl-rimmed rebecs of Ruby
Brought fresh from the hyaline streams,
She played on the banks of the Yuba
Such songs as she heard in her dreams.
God sent his singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth.
Sweeter than any sung
My songs that found no tongue;
Nobler than any fact
My wish that failed of act.
Others shall sing the song,
Others shall right the wrong,--
Finish what I begin,
And all I fail of win.
We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.
Hark! Hark! my soul, angelic songs are swelling
O'er earth's green fields and ocean's wave-beat shore;
How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling
Of that new life when sin shall be no more.
I like the lad, who when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught
Cried, "Served him right! It's not at all surprising
The worm was punished, Sir, for early rising!"
I can not sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low;
'T is that I can't remember how
They go.
Friends I have had both old and young,
And ale we drank and songs we sung:
Enough you know when this is said,
That, one and all, they died in bed.
In bed they died and I'll not go
Where all my friends have perished so.
Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
It seems to me that those songs that have been any good, I have nothing much to do with the writing of them. The words have just crawled down my sleeve and come out on the page.
I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.
Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
The birds have ceased their songs, All save the blackbird, that from yon tall ash, 'Mid Pinkie's greenery, from his mellow throat, In adoration of the setting sun, Chants forth his evening hymn.
Jesus of Nazareth, without money and arms, conquered more millions than Alexander, Caesar, Mahomet, and Napoleon; without science and learning, He shed more light on things human and divine than all philosophers and schools combined; without the eloquence of schools, He spoke words of life such as never were spoken before or since, and produced effects which lie beyond the reach of any orator or poet; without writing a single line, He has set more pens in motion, and furnished themes for more sermons, orations, discussions, learned volumes, works of art and sweet songs of praise, than the whole army of great men of ancient and modern times. Born in a manger, and crucified as a malefactor, He now controls the destinies of the civilized world, and rules a spiritual empire which embraces one-third of the inhabitants of the globe. There never was in this world a life so unpretending, modest, and lowly in its outward form and condition, and yet producing such extraordinary effects upon all ages, nations, and classes of men. The annals of history produce no other example of such complete and astonishing success in spite of the absence of those material, social, literary, and artistic powers and influences which are indispensable to success for a mere man.
Commemoration of Jack Winslow, Missionary, Evangelist, 1974 My God, how endless is Thy love! Thy gifts are every evening new, And morning mercies from above Gently distill like early dew. Thou spread'st the curtains of the night, Great guardian of my sleeping hours; Thy sov'reign word restores the light, And quickens all my drowsy powers. I yield my powers to Thy command, To Thee I consecrate my days; Perpetual blessings from Thine hand Demand perpetual songs of praise.
Ascension Feast of Justin, Martyr at Rome, c.165 Commemoration of Angela de'Merici, Founder of the Institute of St. Ursula, 1540 Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Does its successive journeys run, His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more. For him shall endless prayer be made, And princes throng to crown his head; His name, like sweet perfume, shall rise With every morning sacrifice. People and realms of every tongue Dwell on his love with sweetest song, And infant-voices shall proclaim Their early blessings on his name. Blessings abound where'er he reigns; The prisoners leap to lose their chains; The weary find eternal rest, And all the sons of want are blest. Let every creature rise and bring Honors peculiar to our King; Angels descend with songs again, And earth repeat the loud amen.
Pentecost Feast of Barnabas the Apostle Let songs of praises fill the sky! Christ, our ascended Lord, Sends down his Spirit from on high, According to his word. The Spirit by his heavenly breath, New life creates within: He quickens sinners from the death Of trespasses and sin. The things of Christ the Spirit takes, And shows them unto men; The fallen soul his temple makes, God's image stamps again Come, Holy Spirit, from above, With thy celestial fire: Come, and with flames of zeal and love Our hearts and tongues inspire.
We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear.
A beau is one who arranges his curled locks gracefully, who ever smells of balm, and cinnamon; who hums the songs of the Nile, and Cadiz; who throws his sleek arms into various attitudes; who idles away the whole day among the chair of the ladies, and is ever whispering into some one's ear; who reads little billets- doux from this quarter and that, and writes them in return; who avoids ruffling his dress by contact with his neighbour's sleeve, who knows with whom everybody is in love; who flutters from feast to feast, who can recount exactly the pedigree of Hirpinus. What do you tell me? is this a beau, Cotilus? Then a beau, Cotilus, is a very trifling thing.
I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.
