To The Countess Of Exeter. Playing On The Lute
What charms you have, from what high race you sprung,
Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:
Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ
Of Ca'ndish' beauty, join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to show the labouring muse
What greater theme your music can produce,
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.
The Persians thus, first gazing on the sun,
Admired how high 'twas placed, how bright it shone;
But as his power was known their thoughts were raised,
And soon they worshipp'd what at first they praised.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song,
And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young;
That as in birth and beauty you excel,
The muse might dictate and the poet tell:
Your art no other art can speak; and you
To show how well you play, must play anew:
Your music's power your music must disclose,
For what light is 'tis only light that shows.
Strange force of harmony that thus controls
Our thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our souls.
While with its utmost art your sex could move
Our wonder only or at best our love,
You far above both these your god did place,
That your high power might worldly thoughts destroy,
That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,
And like himself communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your presence crown the blessings there,
Your lute may wind its strings but little higher
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do
More than our books make the rude atheist know
That there's a heaven by what he hears below.
As in some piece while Luke his skill exprest,
A cunning angel came and drew the rest,
So when you play, some godhead does impart
Harmonious aid; divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.
To burning Rome when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
The raging flames, but, struck with strange surprise,
Confess'd them less than those of Anna's eyes;
But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found
His rage eluded and his crime atoned:
Thine, like Amphion's hand, had waked the stone
And from destruction call'd the rising town;
Malice to music had been forced to yield,
Nor could he burn so fast as thou couldst build.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Related quotes
Let It All Be Music
Music is a mirror
Near around my soul
Music is the spirit
Come on let it roll
Music is my nature
People have you heard
Music is my future
Music is the world
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
Music isnt somewhere
Music turns you right
Music is a fever
Leads you day and night
Music is like heaven
Where you wanna be
Music is religion
Music sets you free
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
Music is tomorrow
Music is today
Music is forever
Music is the way
Music is for women
Music is for men
Music is for children
Sing it all again
Let it all be music
People sing a song
Let it all be music
Let us sing it on and on and on and on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on
Lets play the music
My kind of music
Lets play the music
Play it on and on and on
I can feel it, in my soul
I can feel it, in my heart
Sweet sweet sweet music
Music
Sweet sweet sweet music
Sweet music
Play it on
Play it on
My my my my my kind of music
Play it
Play the music
My my my my my kind of music
Play it
I said play it
On and on and on and on
Music
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Play On The Music
Play on the music
Drop by drop
The strings divine
The nature at its eloquence
From heavens to earth
Stretch the string
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Beethoven’s symphony
Chopin’s piano
Santana’s guitar
Or the cuckoos song
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the heat of the night
In cold surroundings
The story of my love
My illusions great
I construct heavens
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For the moments rare
It’s only for those
The discerning here
The enchanted being
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Don’t leave me alone
O soul you fly
The body shivers
With the thought
Of death and destruction
O soul we were friends
Thou fly to eternity
Play on the music
Drop by drop
Your place is heaven
I want to be heard
A slave to a master
So ungrateful
Your beauty in this world
I hath been
You decorated me
With ornaments rare
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For this is your fate
O carrier of soul
The life’s going by
Take your share
O body of the soul
Freedom anew
In the world here
Play on the music
Drop by drop
For I am the real
The being and the nothing
The beloved and the rival
The saki and the wine
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the deep longing
Of the night long
The strings so stretched
From the heavens to earth
Sing songs of love, O beloved mine
Reveal thy face, in my imaginations wild
Torn is my being, between real and unreal
Play on the music
Drop by drop
In the middle of the night
The rain drops falling
From the clouds high
Is telling me this story
Khayyam’s disciple
Sings a song
Play on the music
Drop by drop
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Music And Song
To song and to music people dance along
And life all the better for music and song
When the musicians play and the singers do sing
Great joy to so many they always do bring
Music and song belongs to all people not to any one race
And amongst every culture commands a high place
From the North to the South Pole from Brazil to France
To song and to music people inspired to dance
The gifts of the gods to humanity
Without song and music far worse off we would be
To every tune ever born there's a song to be sung
And music and song are for the old and the young
They were born as soul mates and as soul mates they remain
And for music and song let us hear it again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Rosary
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
Music like that God's chosen poet sings?
There is one harp that any hand can play,
And from its strings what harmonies arise!
There is one song that any mouth can say, --
A song that lingers when all singing dies.
When on their beads our Mother's children pray
Immortal music charms the grateful skies.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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To the Right Honourable The Countess Dowager Of Devonshire, On A Piece Of Wiessen's
Wiessen and nature held a long contest
If she created or he painted best;
With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She still form'd fairer, he still liker drew.
In these seven brethren they contended last;
With art increased their utmost skill they tried,
And both well pleased they had themselves surpass'd,
The goddess triumph'd, and the painter died.
That both their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise:
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiply'd.
When heaven had you and gracious Anna made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty,
With all that world of charms which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love;
His every grace his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours.
If every Cecil's face had every charm
That thought can fancy or that heaven can form,
Their beauties all become your beauty's due;
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Ca'ndish great and charming look,
From you that air, from you the charms, they took,
In their each limb your image is exprest,
But on their brow firm courage stands confest;
There their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty in your sons we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.
So when the parent sun with genial beams
Has animated many goodly gems,
He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.
So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth and people heaven,
Her glory grew diffused; and, fuller known,
She saw the Deity in every son;
And to what god soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.
In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renew'd and stamp'd in all your race.
Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind,
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live:
T'would still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate could do,
Till thine, confused with nature's pieces lie,
And Ca'ndish's name and Cecil's honour die.
poem by Matthew Prior
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To Play Some Music
Say everybody
And everyone
Weve been waitin, so very long
To play some music
And have some fun
Bring some happiness to everyone
Well come with us and try and learn
Whats on your mind
Open your ears and eyes and lets see what you can find
Youre not so different, I dont mean to be unkind
Somethings unfolding if you really take the time
So let the sun shine
Its just begun
Youve given all you could to anyone
Well dont you lose it
Dont run away
Its getting stronger, day after day
Youre sittin there, you say youre
Waiting for the show
And what you have, and what you
Hear is what you really want to know
Youve only come here cause heres
Nowhere else to go
Were only sorry, that we have
To end the show.
Play some music
Play some music
Play some music
Play some music
Play some music
Play some music
Play some music
Yeah
song performed by by Journey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song For St. Cecilia's Day, At Oxford
I.
Cecilia, whose exalted hymns
With joy and wonder fill the blest,
In choirs of warbling seraphims
Known and distinguish'd fom the rest;
Attend, harmonious saint, and see
Thy vocal sons of harmony;
Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our prayers;
Enliven all our earthly airs,
and, as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee:
Tune every string and every tongue,
Be thou the Muse and subject of our song.
II.
Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim,
Enploy the echo in her name.
Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise,
At bright Cecilia's name, their lays;
The organ labours in her praise.
Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace,
From every voice the tuneful accents fly,
In soaring trebles now it rises high,
And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base.
Cecilia's name through all the notes we sing,
The work of every skilful tongue
The sound of every trembling string,
The sound and triumph of our song.
III.
For ever consecrate the day,
To music and Cecilia;
Music, the greatest good that mortals know,
And all of heaven we have below.
Music can noble hints impart,
Engender fury, kindle love;
With unsuspected eloquence can move,
And manage all the man with secret art.
When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre
The streams stand still, the stones admire;
The listening savages advance,
The world and lamb around him trip
The bears in aukward measures leap,
And tigers mingle in the dance
The moving woods attended as he played
And Rhodope was left without a shade.
IV.
Music religious heats inspires,
It wakes the soul, and lifts it high,
And wings it with sublime desires,
And fits it to bespeak the Deity.
Th' Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue,
And seems well-pleas'd and courted with a song.
Soft moving sounds and heavenly airs
Give forece to every word, and recommend our prayers
When time itself shall be no more,
And all things in confusion hurl'd,
Music shall then exert its power,
And sound survive the ruins of the world:
Then saints and angels shall agree
In one eternal jubilee:
All heaven shall echo with their hymns divine,
And God himself with pleasure see
The whole creation in a chorus join.
C H O R U S.
Consecrate the place and day,
To music and Cecilia Let no rough winds approach, nor dare
Invade the hallow'd bounds,
Nor rudely shake the tuneful air,
Nor spoil the fleeting sounds.
Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard,
But gladness dwell on every tongue;
Whilst all, with voice and strings prepar'd,
Keep u; the loud harmonious song.
And imitate the blest above,
In joy, and harmony, and love.
poem by Joseph Addison
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To Miss Hickman, Playing the Spinet
Bright Stella, form'd for universal reign,
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,
And yield reluctant to despotic sway;
But when your music soothes the raging pain,
We bid propitious heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king:
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
He pants for room in one poor world confined.
Thus waked to rage by music's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt the nobler fire:
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair;
Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Eight Years Old
SUN, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter’s ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter’s way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love’s pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child’s ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Taming The Shrew!
You can even move a mountain by faith, they say;
You can melt even a mountain by poetry, I say!
You can crack even a hard nut by poetry, know you!
Who cannot be moved by music in the world?
Music makes even a poisonous snake dance to its tune!
Music has the power to tame or drive away wild animals.
Poetry is musical words created by poet’s magic power;
Man being a higher being is tamed by musical poetry.
Poetry has the power to absorb, tame and inspire many!
Poetry consoles as music, art and Nature worn out souls
As poetry is the best and final resort for the hopeless here
For, it’s like God’s power that can turn hopeless into hopeful!
Poetry, the source of music and song, is the first and last
That tames the shrew and turns a dolt into a daunting don!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Before The Lord We Bow
Before the Lord we bow, the God Who reigns above,
And rules the world below, boundless in power and love.
Our thanks we bring in joy and praise, our hearts we raise
To Heaven's high King.
The nation Thou hast blest may well Thy love declare,
From foes and fears at rest, protected by Thy care.
For this fair land, for this bright day, our thanks we pay,
Gifts of Thy hand.
May every mountain height, each vale and forest green,
Shine in Thy Word's pure light, and its rich fruits be seen!
May every tongue be tuned to praise, and join to raise
A grateful song.
Earth, hear thy Maker's voice, thy great Redeemer own;
Believe, obey, rejoice, and worship Him alone.
Cast down thy pride, thy sin deplore and bow before
The Crucified.
And when in power He comes, O may our native land,
From all its rending tombs, send forth a glorious band.
A countless throng, ever to sing to Heaven's high King
Salvation's song.
poem by Francis Scott Key
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Music (The Song)
It plays to my heartstrings...
It is the music to my ears-
...It is the tender love song of my life-
And the refelections of my years...
All in a simple sweet melody-
...The rhythm and harmony flow-
Yes, dancing at my heartstrings-
...The memories, they come and they go...
It is the music of my lifetime-
...It is the gentle refrain, in my head-
'A play it to my soul song'
...Down the road of love-
...I am led...
It is a once, in a lifetime song-
...Forever growing, it is, in me-
It is, a broken heart tune-
...And a haunting melody...
It is the songs of our Nation-
...The Anthems and Hymns...
It is the: 'Glory to the World My Friend, ' song-
...That has become, way too dim...
It is the 'Light of My Life' ballad-
...In perfect melodic harmony-
It is the say it all: 'With Words and Music'
...It is the Best that Music Can Be...
poem by Theodora Onken
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A Song for St. Cecilia's Day
FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
'Arise, ye more than dead!'
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet's loud clangour
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!
The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair, disdainful dame.
But O, what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the Blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!
poem by John Dryden
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Come hither, child
Come hither, child--who gifted thee
With power to touch that string so well?
How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me,
Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell?
Nay, chide not, lady; long ago
I heard those notes in Ula's hall,
And had I known they'd waken woe
I'd weep their music to recall.
But thus it was: one festal night
When I was hardly six years old
I stole away from crowds and light
And sought a chamber dark and cold.
I had no one to love me there,
I knew no comrade and no friend;
And so I went to sorrow where
Heaven, only heaven saw me bend.
Loud blew the wind; 'twas sad to stay
From all that splendour barred away.
I imaged in the lonely room
A thousand forms of fearful gloom.
And with my wet eyes raised on high
I prayed to God that I might die.
Suddenly in that silence drear
A sound of music reached my ear,
And then a note, I hear it yet,
So full of soul, so deeply sweet,
I thought that Gabriel's self had come
To take me to thy father's home.
Three times it rose, that seraph strain,
Then died, nor breathed again;
But still the words and still the tone
Dwell round my heart when all alone.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Sonnet: A Poet’s Doubt
How long O God, do I play on this lute?
How long will my numbers keep coming on?
Will they lose their charm? Will they become mute?
How long Poesy’s attire do I don?
I pray Thine inspiration does not cease,
Lest my creation become a dead-piece,
And I cannot do it with mighty glee;
Give me Thine nectar: I am Thine one bee.
And when my hive gets blown away by wind,
Forsake me not; where can I go to live?
And if I remain in a state most sinned,
Redeemer God, will Thou not me forgive?
I am Thine lute and I am thine one bee!
Give me Thine music and nectar freely.
poem by John Celes
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Come Hither, Child
Come hither, child; who gifted thee
With power to touch that string so well?
How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me,
Thoughts that I would--but cannot quell?
Nay, chide not, lady; long ago
I heard those notes in Elbe hall,
And had I known they'd waken woe
I'd weep their music to recall.
But thus it was: one festal night
When I was hardly six years old
I stole away from crowds and light
And sought a chamber dark and cold.
I had no one to love me there,
I knew no comrade and no friend;
And so I went to sorrow where
Heaven, only heaven saw me bend.
Loud blew the wind. 'Twas sad to stay
From all that splendour barred away.
I imaged in the lonely room
A thousand forms of fearful gloom.
And with my wet eyes raised on high
I prayed to God that I might die.
Suddenly in that silence drear
A sound of music reached my ear:
And then a note, I hear it yet,
So full of soul, so deeply sweet,
I thought that Gabriel's self had come
To take me to thy father's home.
Three times it rose, that seraph strain,
Then died, nor breathed again;
But still the words and still the tone
Dwell round my heart when all alone.
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song Of The Harp
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it soft and clear.
If I listen long enough
maybe I will hear
all the tones that vibrate,
reaching through the spheres.
Angel play upon your harp
sweet music for my ears.
All the sounds that reach our young
are not too heavenly.
Their music is just so much noise,
I know it cannot be
music that an angel plays,
music that is sweet.
All they seem to want is
a steady throbbing beat.
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it night and day.
Maybe they might listen
to the silken tones you play.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Play On
All of my life, the wheels were turning
Drawing me near, to something that's burning bright
The music begins, a song that is new
Joining as one, it leads me to you
(Chorus)
Play on, play on, lifting our voices to reach the sky
Play on, play on, singing a song and my heart's on fire
My morning star, has always been with me
Lifting me up, when I couldn't carry on
Turning the page, to each song I write
Leading me on, on through the night
(Chor us)
Living the song
Holding on to a dream that never dies
I open my eyes
Learning the word that never fade
Now it begins
Never to end
It's the prize I long for
Play on, play on, lifting our voices to reach the sky
Play on, play on, sound a refrain to be heard on high
Play on, play on, singing a song and my heart's on fire
song performed by by Kansas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Gotta Have A Song
Got no place to be
No ones needing me
My girl just said were through
Love was here to stay
Only yesterday
Today my world is blue
So show me to where theres music
Show me to where theres music
With music I just might go on.
I gotta have a song
To go it alone.
A happy happy song
Had a happy home
Now its turned to stone
Kitchens cold and bare
Shed cook all day for me
I still hurry home to see
But I know that shes not there
So show me to where theres music
Show me to where theres music
With music I just might go on.
I gotta have a song
To go it alone.
A happy happy song
Show me to where theres music
Show me to where theres music
With music, I just cant go wrong..
I gotta have a song.
To go it alone
A happy happy song..
(Repeat)
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There's Solace In Verse
A song's but a way of telling a story,
It can be about love even sadness or glory,
Whatever the lyrics you can guarantee,
By singing those words you can set yourself free.
While listening to music be it night or day,
The song takes you over you get carried away
Before you know it you are singing along,
You become that person, the singer of that song.
When you're writing the lyrics ensure they're kept terse,
For that's when you will find,
‘' There's Solace In Verse ''
That's the wonder of music regardless of type,
It makes you feel good you believe all the hype,
A song can lift you when you're feeling grief,
If you need cheering up it will bring you relief.
That's the wonder of music for like it or not,
It stirs up a feeling which just cannot be bought,
Next time you feel down if you just want to cry,
Put on some music go on give it a try.
Before you know it those thoughts will disperse,
Very soon you'll believe,
‘' There's Solace In Verse ''
So become a believer play your favourite song,
If you don't feel the vibes you can say I was wrong,
But that won't happen for I know that it's true,
When you play the right music it will happen to you.
From that special feeling you will not want to hide,
It will change your perspective; it can turn the tide,
Before you know it your life has unfurled,
You'll be back to your best, on top of the world.
In the lyrics and music you will soon immerse,
It's then you'll have learned,
‘‘ There's Solace In Verse ‘'