Quotes
Quotes about Songs
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light The nightingale does sit so late; And studying all the summer night, Her matchless songs does meditate.
I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown I, Phoebus, sang them; Homer only wrote them down.
It is my heart That makes my songs, not I. Marc Chagall -Sara Teasdale.
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!
I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again,.
I can write good songs. I can sing 'em, and I mean it, I mean it deeply, and I pour everything into that. Other than that, I suck.
Sing out my soul, thy songs of joy; Such as a happy bird will sing, Beneath a Rainbow's lovely arch, In early spring.
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe? Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and jibe: Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe; Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!
Money can't buy real friendshipâfriendship must be earned. Money can't buy a clear conscienceâsquare dealing is the price tag. Money can't buy the glow of good healthâright living is the secret. Money can't buy happinessâhappiness is a mental condition and one may be as happy in a cottage as in a mansion. Money can't buy sunsets, songs of wild birds and the music of the wind in the treesâthese are as free as the air we breath. Money can't buy inward peaceâpeace is the result of a constructive philosophy in life. Money can't buy a good characterâgood character is achieved through decent habits of private living and wholesome dealings in our open contacts with our fellow men.
The songs are inspired by my experiences. Sometimes they are more than my real-life and, conversely, my life is more than just my songs.
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.
I cannot sing the old songs, Or dream those dreams again,
Wood-pigeons cooed there, stock-doves nestled there; My trees were full on songs and flowers and fruit, Their branches spread a city to the air.
Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample; But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one Being with "Formosum Pastor Corydon."
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so."
The crowning fortune of a man is to be born to some pursuit which finds him employment and happiness, whether it be to make baskets, or broadswords, or canals, or statues, or songs.
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.
I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act i. Sc. 1.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act v. Sc. 2.
Sang in tones of deep emotion Songs of love and songs of longing.
God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.
Every night he comes With musics of all sorts, and songs composed To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us To chide him from our eaves, for he persists As if his life lay on't.
Everything ends with songs. [Fr., Tout finit par des chansons.]
I cannot sing the old songs Though well I know the tune, Familiar as a cradle-song With sleep-compelling croon; Yet though I'm filled with music, As choirs of summer birds, "I cannot sing the old songs"-- I do not know the words.
I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low, 'Tis that I can't remember how They go.
