I know why the caged bird sings.
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A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.
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A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never stops at all.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all
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Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without words And never stops at all.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
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Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
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That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.
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Chastity prays for me, piety sings, Innocence sweetens my last black breath,...
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Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvellous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.
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In summer, the song sings itself.
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Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
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The caged bird sings with a fearful trill...
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Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.
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What a mother sings to the cradle goes all the way down to the coffin.
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In summer, the song sings itself.
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Oh, give us the man who sings at his work.
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Whoever is admitted or sought for, in company, upon any other account than that of his merit and manners, is never respected there, but only made use of. We will have such-a-one, for he sings prettily; we will invite such-a-one to a ball, for he dances well; we will have such-a-one at supper, for he is always joking and laughing; we will ask another because he plays deep at all games, or because he can drink a great deal. These are all vilifying distinctions, mortifying preferences, and exclude all ideas of esteem and regard. Whoever is had (as it is called) in company for the sake of any one thing singly, is singly that thing, and will never be considered in any other light; consequently never respected, let his merits be what they will.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without words
And never stops at all.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all.
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I couldn't tell fact from fiction,
Or if the dream was true
My only sure prediction
In this world was you.
I'd touch your features inchly
Beard love and dared the cost,
The sented spiel reeled me unreal
And I found my senses lost.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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He alone is at peace, and he alone is embellished forever, who meets with the Guru, and sings the Glorious Praises of the Lord.
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Let us not always say / `Spite of this flesh today / I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!' / As the bird wings and sings,/ Let us cry `All good things / Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul.'
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Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.
And sings the tune
Without the words,
and never stops at all.
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Just as a prism of glass miters light and casts a colored braid, a garden sings sweet incantations the human heart strains to hear. Hiding in every flower, in every leaf, in every twig and bough, are reflections of the God who once walked with us in Eden.
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A lone carnival voice Sings tunes of nobody's choice, And on a vacant lot, Some one just forgot, Standing all alone, Turning on its own. Weary merry go round, Grows slowly into the ground, And faded circus acts, Sorrow broke their backs, And their sadness cries From their staring eyes. Still small children come And bring your harm of play, Spirits all alive To drive the ghosts away. Useless merry go round, Tomorrow they'll tear you down, To build the parking lot If it lives or not, It was just a toy, All it brought was joy.
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