Quotes
Quotes about Voice
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns,
And as the portal opens to receive me,
A voice in hollow murmurs through the courts
Tells of a nameless deed.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
Two voices are there: one is of the sea,
One of the mountains,--each a mighty voice.
But shapes that come not at an earthly call
Will not depart when mortal voices bid.
Ancestral voices prophesying war.
Earth with her thousand voices praises God.
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud.
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
The Devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
All love is sweet,
Given or returned. Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
. . . . . .
They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happier still.
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
He ne'er is crown'd
With immortality, who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead.
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast.
In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.
Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming,
Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer.
Such souls,
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages.
Though love repine, and reason chafe,
There came a voice without reply,--
"'T is man's perdition to be safe
When for the truth he ought to die."
