Related quotes: O soft and dainty maiden,...

To A Girl In A Garden

O soft and dainty maiden, from afar
I watch you, as amidst the flowers you move,
And pluck them, singing.

More golden than all gold your tresses are:
Never was harp-note like your voice, my love,
Your voice sweet-ringing.

poem by Sappho
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One Voice

Words and Music by
Barry Manilow
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Just One Voice,
Singing in the darkness,
All it takes is One Voice,
Singing so they hear what's on your mind,
And when you look aound you'll find
There's more than One Voice,
Singing in the darkness,
Joining with your One Voice,
Ea ch and every note another octave,
Hands are joined and fears unlocked,
If only One Voice would start it on its own,
We need just One Voice facing the unknown,
And that One Voice would never be alone

song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Voice I Remember

I remember the voice. Quiet,
soft as a caress on the back of my neck,
coating my heart and mind
the way dust settles
when the air goes still.
A landslide of light
swallowing everything in its path,
leaving all undisturbed, cool
and dressed to face the sun.
I remember the way his voice carried my name
like a prince to the throne.
The voice was strength and calm in the same note
-the last note he ever sang.
I remember the voice. I hear that note
and I know the way home.

poem by Ronald Shields
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The Origin of the Harp

Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair -- still her cheeks smiled the same --
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

poem by Thomas Moore
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The Choice Of Sweet Shy Clare

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay
On the velvet sward—enjoying the golden summer day;
And many a ringing silv’ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,
With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed to tell.

They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one
By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be wooed and won—
Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain,
Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love obtain.

The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy grace,
Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face:
“I ask not much in the favor’d one who this dainty hand would gain;—
No ordeal long would I ask of him—no hours of mental pain.

“Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and pride,
To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride,
Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and gold,—
Love’s flame ’neath poverty’s breath, ’tis said, soon waxes faint and cold.”

Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien:
“Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I ween,
Thou askest paltry rank and wealth—aim higher would be mine!
Rare mental gold—the priceless fire of genius divine.”

“And I,” said a third, with soft sweet voice, “would exact still less than ye,
No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me;
Nor ask I that genius’ lofty power in his ardent soul should dwell,
Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!”

Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and grace,
That he she would love must matchless stand, the noblest of his race,
Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war,
Yet, with hand and voice, in lady’s bower, attuned to light guitar.

And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild,
With a seraph’s purity of look, and soft graces of a child;
“Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for thee,
Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart’s young choice will be.”

A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her brow,
And softly she murmured “Sisters, dear, I have made my choice ere now,
And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or divine.
In strange perfection—God like grace—will be found all, all in mine.”

She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o’er those youthful brows of mirth,
They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King—the Lord of Heaven and earth;
And e’er fleet time of another year had sounded the passing knell,
The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent cell.

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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This Lonely Heart

Romantic songs I hear
always bring you near
even if you aren't here
I shall keep you dear

Moments I spent thinking
about your sweet singing
your sweet voice ringing
in my heart lingering

In solitude I still survive
memoirs keep me alive
even if you wouldn't come
my love for you won't be gone

poem by Marvin Brato Sr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fighting Téméraire

It was eight bells ringing,
For the morning watch was done,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they polished every gun.
It was eight bells ringing,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
For the ship she rode a-swinging,
As they polished every gun.

Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to hear the round shot biting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
And to hear the round shot biting,
For we're all in love with fighting
On the fighting Téméraire.

It was noontide ringing,
And the battle just begun,
When the ship her way was winging,
As they loaded every gun.
It was noontide ringing,
When the ship her way was winging,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they loaded every gun.

There'll be many grim and gory,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be few to tell the story,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be many grim and gory,
There'll be few to tell the story,
But we'll all be one in glory
With the Fighting Téméraire.

There's a far bell ringing
At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of renown for ever clinging
To the great days done.

Now the sunset breezes shiver,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
And she's fading down the river,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Now the sunset's breezes shiver,
And she's fading down the river,
But in England's song for ever
She's the Fighting Téméraire.

poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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The Two Keys

There was a Boy, long years ago,
Who hour by hour awake would lie,
And watch the white moon gliding slow
Along her pathway in the sky.
And every night as thus he lay
Entranced in lonely fantasy,
Borne swiftly on a bright moon-ray
There came to him a Golden Key.

And with that Golden Key the Boy
Oped every night a magic door
That to a melody of Joy
Turned on its hinges evermore.

Then, trembling with delight and awe,
When he the charmèd threshold crossed,
A radiant corridor he saw—
Its end in dazzling distance lost.

Great windows shining in a row
Lit up the wondrous corridor,
And each its own rich light did throw
In stream resplendent on the floor.

One window showed the Boy a scene
Within a forest old and dim,
Where fairies danced upon the green
And kissed their little hands to him.

Sweet strains of elfin harp and horn
He heard so clearly sounding there,
And he to Wonderland was borne
And breathed its soft enchanted air.

Then, passing onward with the years,
He turned his back on Elf and Fay,
And sadly sweet, as if in tears,
The fairy music died away.

The second window held him long:
It looked upon a field of fight
Whereon the countless hordes of Wrong
Fought fiercely with the friends of Right.

And, lo! upon that fateful field,
Where cannon thundered, banners streamed,
And rushing squadrons rocked and reeled,
His sword a star of battle gleamed.

And when the hordes of Wrong lay still,
And that great fight was fought and won,
He stood, bright-eyed, upon a hill,
His white plume shining in the sun.

A glorious vision! yet behind
He left it with its scarlet glow,
And faint and far upon the wind
He heard the martial trumpets blow.

For to his listening ear was borne
A music more entrancing far
Than strains of elfin harp or horn,
More thrilling than the trump of war.

No longer as a dreamy boy
He trod the radiant corridor:
His young man’s heart presaged a joy
More dear than all the joys of yore.

To that third window, half in awe,
He moved, and slowly raised his eyes—
And was it earth grown young he saw?
Or was it man’s lost Paradise?

For all the flowers that ever bloomed
Upon the earth, and all the rare
Sweet Loveliness by Time entombed,
Seemed blushing, blooming, glowing there.

And every mellow-throated bird
That ever sang the trees among
Seemed singing there, with one sweet word—
“Love! Love!” on every little tongue.

Then he by turns grew rosy-red,
And he by turns grew passion-pale.
“Sweet Love!” the lark sang overhead,
“Sweet Love!” sang Love’s own nightingale.

In mid-heart of the hawthorn-tree
The thrush sang all its buds to bloom;
“Love! Love! Love! Love! Sweet Love,” sang he
Amidst the soft green sun-flecked gloom.

She stood upon a lilied lawn,
With dreamful eyes that gazed afar:
A maiden tender as the Dawn
And lovely as the Morning Star.
She stooped and kissed him on the brow,
And in a low, sweet voice said she:
“I am this country’s queen—and thou?”
“I am thy vassal,” murmured he.

She hid him with her hair gold-red,
That flowed like sunshine to her knee;
She kissed him on the lips, and said:
“Dear heart! I’ve waited long for thee.”

And, oh, she was so fair, so fair,
So gracious was her beauty bright,
Around her the enamoured air
Pulsed tremulously with delight.

In passionate melody did melt
Bird-voices, scent of flower and tree,
And he within his bosom felt
The piercing thorn of ecstasy.

The years passed by in dark and light,
In storm and shine; the man grew old,
Yet never more by day or night
There came to him the Key of Gold.
But ever, ere the great sun flowers
In gold above the sky’s blue rim,
All in the dark and lonely hours
There comes an Iron Key to him.

And with that key he opes a wide
And gloomy door—the Door of Fate—
That makes, whene’er it swings aside,
A music sad and desolate,

A music sad from saddest source:
He sees beside the doorway set
The chill, gray figure of Remorse,
The pale, cold image of Regret.

For all the glory and the glow
Of Life are passed, and dead, and gone:
The Light and Life of Long Ago
Are memories only—moonlight wan.

There is no man of woman born
So brave, so good, so wise but he
Must sometimes in a night forlorn
Take up and use the Iron Key.

poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Hero

"Flowers, only flowers -- bring me dainty posies,
Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said;
So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses,
Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed.
Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing;
Soft into his tired eyes came a little light;
Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing;
There amid the flowers waited he the night.

"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then:
I would see the sun set once before I go."
So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then,
Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow.
So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling,
Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame,
Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling;
So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came.

"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing;
There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky.
How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging:
Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die.
I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me;
I am battle-broken, all I want is rest.
Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me,
And a kind lark singing in the golden West.

"Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting,
Just the happy laughter of a little child."
So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting;
Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled.
"In the golden peace-time you will tell the story
How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . .
God bless little children!" So he passed to glory,
So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I worked on my voice for Sweet Dreams, but only to match my speaking voice to Patsy's actual singing voice. That was my way into that character.

quote by Jessica Lange
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Recognize Your Voice

I recognize your voice, your cheerful laughter,
when I enter a room full of people
and even your soft steps each day

catches me with a tingle time after time,
through your beauty that flowers continually.
I recognize your voice, your cheerful laughter,

sometimes it feels as if you are waiting on me
but constantly you do astound me
and even your soft steps each day

has a kind of skipping to them
and with being in love I am stupid.
I recognize your voice, your cheerful laughter,

sometimes hear it echoing at night
although your face is disguised by the darkness
and even your soft steps each day,

but our love is not a game of force
and still continually you turn my life upside down.
I recognize your voice, your cheerful laughter
and even your soft steps each day

poem by Gert Strydom
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Dica

With flowers fair adorn thy lustrous hair,
Dica, amidst thy locks sweet blossoms twine,
With thy soft hands, for so a maiden stands
Accepted of the gods, whose eyes divine
Are turned away from her--though fair as May
She waits, but round whose locks no flowers shine.

poem by Sappho
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shepherds All And Maidens Fair

PIPE, shepherds, pipe, the summer's ripe;
So wreathe your crooks with flowers;
The world's in tune to Love and June,
The days are rich in hours,
In rosy hours, in golden hours--
Love's crown and fortune fair,
So gather gold for Love to hold,
And flowers for Love to wear!

Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ring
Of pleasures speed your way;
Too harsh and dry is fierce July,
Too maiden-meek was May;
But Love and June their old sweet tune
Are singing at your ear:
So learn the song and troop along
To meet your shepherds dear!

Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear,
And gold to spend have I--
When all are gay on this June day
You would not bid me sigh?
You would not scorn a swain forlorn--
Each shepherd far and near
Hastes to his sweet, with flying feet,
As I towards my dear.

No maids there be in Arcady
But have their shepherds true;
Must you alone despise the one
Who only pipes for you?
You have no ear my pipe to hear
Though all for you it be;
And I no eyes for her who sighs
And only sings for me!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Two Voices

Two voices I hear inside my head,
Both wanting their own way.
I must figure out, which voice must go,
And which I allow to stay.

One is the voice of my spirit,
The other of my mind.
One will move me farther ahead.
One will pull be further behind.

But I do not know, which voice is which,
And which voice has my best.
In order to know, which voice is true.
I put both voices to the test.

With one voice I know peace and love,
Are the rewards that I will find.
And the one that creates confusion and fear.
That is the voice inside my mind.

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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What Voice? ...

On this World Voice Day
It's a duty of us all
A pause for reflecting
Thanking the Creator
And all those who gave
And those who keep giving
Their voice for Love
For their wishes for Peace
And for the deepest Lament!
It's the voice of the Humanist
It's the voice of the Actor
It's the voice of the Poet
It's the voice of every Artist
It's the voice of the Scientist
The voice of the voiceless
And the voice of those able to voice it
Yet... they're deprived of doing so
And it doesn't reach us
As it would be fair, though!

April 16,2012

poem by Maria C. Costa
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East West

East west
Over the ocean
Perpetual motion
Travelling around
No rest
Singing and playing
Night out and day in
Doing the rounds
What a great life this must seem !
Swelled joints
Everything classy
Nothing is tacky
Only the best
Lush girls
Older and dying
Sighing and crying
This is success !
What a great life this must seem !
But when I hear your voice
Singing out
The bells of home
Are ringing out
And I feel all alone
(and I think of my home)
Cold times
A wind through the houses
The bleakness arouses
A longing to leave
Time flew
I wanted to see you
Somehow I could not do
Because of success
What a strange life this can be !
But when I hear your voice
Singing out
The bells of home
Are ringing out
And I feel all alone
(and I think of my home)

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Luca

Jacob Tremblay (voice), Jack Dylan Grazer (voice), Emma Berman (voice), Maya Rudolph (voice), Marco Barricelli (voice), Jim Gaffigan (voice), Peter Sohn (voice), Marina Massironi (voice), Sandy Martin (voice), Giacomo Gianniotti (voice), Sacha Baron Cohen (voice), Jonathan Nichols (voice)

from Luca (2021)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Same Old Story

The same old story told again--
The maiden droops her head,
The ripening glow of her crimson cheek
Is answering in her stead.
The pleading tone of a trembling voice
Is telling her the way
He loved her when his heart was young
In Youth's sunshiny day:
The trembling tongue, the longing tone,
Imploringly ask why
They can not be as happy now
As in the days gone by.
And two more hearts, tumultuous
With overflowing joy,
Are dancing to the music
Which that dear, provoking boy
Is twanging on his bowstring,
As, fluttering his wings,
He sends his love-charged arrows
While merrily be sings:
'Ho! ho! my dainty maiden,
It surely can not be
You are thinking you are master
Of your heart, when it is me.'
And another gleaming arrow
Does the little god's behest,
And the dainty little maiden
Falls upon her lover's breast.
'The same old story told again,'
And listened o'er and o'er,
Will still be new, and pleasing, too,
Till 'Time shall be no more.'

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Fallen

Babylon has fallen,
Fallen and fallen!
Yes, the great City has fallen;
And like another sad note without the harp to play my song.
To every nation, tribe, language and people;
However, thrust in your sickle and reap for joy!
For the harvest of my love is now ripe.
Touch me with your love and enjoy my taste,
And like the muse of love in the night and day;
But, this great voice of a thunder is now heard from afar! !
She should have waited but now it is gone,
Yes, gone too soon with the like,
A candle in the wind without any hope around.
Babylon has fallen!
And now, the mission is over.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The songster

Music, music with throb and swing,
Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,--
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
Is sweet as the robin's song.

He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.

Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
Till his music drowns the day.