O lyric Love, half angel and half bird; And all a wonder and a wild desire, Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, Took sanctuary within the holier blue, And sang a kindred soul out to his face, Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart; When the first summons from the darkling earth Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of the glory to drop down, To toil for man, to suffer or to die, This is the same voice: can thy soul know change? Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!
And as I played, a child came thro' the gate,A boy who looked at me without a word,As tho' he saw stretch far behind my headLong lines of radiant angels, row on row.That day we spoke a little, timidly,And after that I never heard the voiceThat sang so many songs for love of me.sara teasdale
I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.edna st. vincent millay
I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail; And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang For the song or the singer, so here is an end of the tale.Da i bh| dh OÅ Bruadair
There's ane end of ane auld sang.
Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc Parthenope; cecini pascua rura duces. Mantua brought me life,Calabria death; now Naples holds me: I sang of flocks and farms and heroes.
L'arbre de la liberté ne croit qu'arrosé par le sang des tyrans. [Translated]: The tree of liberty only grows when watered by the blood of tyrants.bertrand barère de vieuzac
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:I cannot say what loves have come and gone,I only know that summer sang in meA little while, that in me sings no more.edna st. vincent millay
A lot of songs I sang to crowds to get their reaction. That's how I knew they'd hit.little richard
He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the song,— the song for me!william wordsworth
And the just man trailed God's shining agent, over a black mountain, in his giant track, while a restless voice kept harrying his woman: "It's not too late, you can still look back at the red towers of your native Sodom, the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed, at the empty windows set in the tall house where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."anna akhmatova
La liberté politique, la tranquillité d'une nation, la science même, sont des présents pour lesquels le destin prélève des impôts de sang!honoré de balzac
Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the Light The marrow in the bone We dreamed was safe. . . the blood in the veins, the sap in the tree Were springs of Deity.edith sitwell
(Spoken) He came out, kinda like tonight, like I am, with just a guitar, and sang some songs. I thought, shit, I could do that.todd snider
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day; His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze: He did not cease; but cooed and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed: He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the song, the song for me!william wordsworth
Under the linden, On the meadow, Where our bed arranged was, There now you may find e'en In the shadow Broken flowers and crushed grass. Near the woods, down in the vale, Tandaradi! Sweetly sang the nightingale.
When buttercups are blossoming, The poets sang, 'tis best to wed: So all for love we paired in Spring , Blanche and I, ere youth had sped.edmund clarence stedman
There he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes.”
The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark's is a clarion call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all. For his song is all the joy of life, And we in the mad spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.
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