And suddenly first one and then another began to sing as they played, deep-throated singing of the dwarves in the deep places of their ancient homes; and this is like a fragment of their song, if it can be like their song without their music. [..]As they sang the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him, a fierce and jealous love, the desire of the hearts of dwarves. Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick. He looked out of the window. The stars were out in a dark sky above the trees. He thought of the jewels of the dwarves shining in dark caverns. Suddenly in the wood beyond The Water a flame leapt up - probably somebody lighting a wood-fire-and he thought of plundering dragons settling on his quiet Hill and kindling it all to flames. He shuddered; and very quickly he was plain Mr. Baggins of Bag-End, Under-Hill, again. He got up trembling.
places magic travel adventure music hearts thought sword songs beautiful desire sky song mountains dark moving ancient trees deep dragons singing stars water hobbit quiet hands things window sing hear explore inside great made love cunning
Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? No. Just as one can never learn how to paint.
beauty art color learn sing colors paint
Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.
dance art soul stories poem write grow friend matter sing radio reward
Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college. And I realize some of you may be having trouble deciding whether I am kidding or not. So from now on I will tell you when I'm kidding. For instance, join the National Guard or the Marines and teach democracy. I'm kidding. We are about to be attacked by Al Qaeda. Wave flags if you have them. That always seems to scare them away. I'm kidding. If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.
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Because all the brilliant ones- they can sing it and they can paint it, but they can't do it. You can't expect them to love you.
music art artist sing brilliant love paint
Some lyrics need to be screamed for you to get them out of your soul appropriately.
anger pain music art soul inspirational musician lyrics song artist flyleaf mosley nicole emotion sing
And half of learning to play is learning what not to playand she's learning the spaces she leaves have their own things to sayand she's trying to sing just enough so that the air around her movesand make music like mercy that gives what it is and has nothing to proveshe crawls out on a limb and begins to build her homeand it's enough just to look around and to know that she's not aloneup up up up up up up points the spire of the steeplebut god's work isn't done by godit's done by people
people work music art transcendence learning wind integrity play mercy air things sing
Without the gods, how would I sing?' I asked. With your own voice,' he said.
voice inspirational gods sing atheism
Lift up your heads, ye people, lift up your faces, too, open your mouths to sing His praise, and the rain will fall on you.
people healing praise jesus fall rain open sing faces god christian
I ask not for riches or glory, not even the glory of Heaven - that belongs by right to my brothers the Angels and Saints, and my own glory shall be the radiance that streams from the queenly brow of my Mother, the Church. Nay, I ask for Love. To love Thee, Jesus, is now my only desire. Great deeds are not for me; I cannot preach the Gospel or shed my blood. No matter! My brothers work in my stead, and I, a little child, stay close to the throne, and love Thee for all who are in the strife. But how shall I show my love, since love proves itself by deeds? Well! The little child will strew flowers.. She will embrace the Divine Throne with their fragrance, she will sing Love's Canticle in silvery tones. Yes, my Beloved, it is thus my short life shall be spent in Thy sight. The only way I have of proving my love is to strew flowers before Thee - that is to say, I will let no tiny sacrifice pass, no look, no word. I wish to profit by the smallest actions, and to do them for Love. I wish to suffer for Love's sake, and for Love's sake even to rejoice: thus shall I strew flowers.
life deeds glory work christianity inspirational gospel church heaven sacrifice desire actions jesus mother divine word angels blood child flowers riches fragrance suffer matter sing brothers profit sight great close saints god love christian missionary embrace short beloved
Suddenly, as one, all the Greys stop talking and gape at Christian. What? Christian is singing softly to himself at the piano. Silence descends on us all as we strain to hear his soft, lyrical voice. I've heard him sing before, haven't they? He stops, suddenly conscious of the deathly hush that's fallen over the room. Kate glances questioningly at me and I shrug. Christian turns on the stool and frowns, embarrassed to realize he's become the center of attention.'Go on,' Grace urges softly. 'I've never heard you sing, Christian. Ever.
silence grace voice attention singing conscious talking stop sing hear piano fallen realize christian kate
[novan]: bassists are very good with their fingers[novan]: and some of us sing backup vocals, so that means we're good with our mouths too..(~ IM chat with Novan Chang, 18, bassist)
funny culture humor friendship technology literature life wisdom imagination truth youth self music individuality passion honesty body reality sexuality relationships musician desire good romance media girl sex emotion lust novel young sing cool sexy sex-appeal boy hot asian humour
Gay diversity is like the Village People. You can all wear different stupid outfits as long as you sing the same stupid song.
culture politics diversity people song gay sing stupid
Then he asked my age and I asked his. That's the tradition in China. If we know each other's ages we can understand each other's past. We Chinese have been collective for so long, personal histories are not worth mentioning. Therefore as soon as Xiaolin and I knew how old the other was, we knew exactly what big shit had happened in our lives. The introduction of the One Child Policy shortly before out births, for instance and the fact that, in 1985, two pandas were sent to the USA as a national gift and we had to sing a tearful panda song at school. 1989 was the Tiananmen Square student demonstration. Anyway, Xiaolin was one year younger than me, so I assumed we were from the same generation.
culture tradition worth age past chinese song gift school lives personal child usa shit understand fact sing student big china
I meet people and they enforce me their culture and then I choose to fly away and I meet other people and these people force me their religion and I wanna fly away. I meet other people, these people are silent, we begin to sing the song of the ocean and then we fly away together ~
culture force people religion song choose sing fly silent ocean begin
Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am the starshine of the night. I am in the flowers that bloom, I am in a quiet room. I am in the birds that sing, I am in each lovely thing. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there. I do not die.
sleep death inspirational night lovely cry quiet flowers grave birds stand weep die sing bloom thing epitaph
Oh, the torment bred in the race, the grinding scream of deathand the stroke that hits the vein, the hemorrhage none can staunch, the grief, the curse no man can bear. But there is a cure in the house, and not outside it, no, not from others but from them, their bloody strife. We sing to you, dark gods beneath the earth. Now hear, you blissful powers underground --answer the call, send help. Bless the children, give them triumph now.
race man death children earth dark gods grief triumph call sing curse hear torment cure house scream give bear
The bird is gone, and in what meadow does it now sing?
death spirituality grief sing bird
Everyone has always said I look like Bailey, but I don't.I have grey eyes to her green, an oval face to her heart-shaped one,I'm shorter, scrawnier, paler, flatter, plainer, tamer. All we shared is a madhouse of curlsthat I imprison in a ponytailwhile she let hers ravelike madnessaround her head.I don't sing in my sleepor eat the petals off flowersor run into the rain instead of out of it.I'm the unplugged-in one, the side-kick sister, tucked into a corner of her shadow. Boys followed her everywhere; they filled the booths at the restaurant where she waitressed, herded around her at the river. One day, I saw a boy come up behind herand pull a strand of her long hairI understood this-I felt the same way. In photographs of us together, she is always looking at the camera, and I am always looking at her.
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If I should go before the rest of youBreak not a flower nor inscribe a stone, Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice But be the usual selves that I have known. Weep if you must, Parting is hell, But life goes on, So sing as well.
life death rest voice flower hell speak parting weep sing
Let my heiress have full rights, Live in my house, sing songs that I composed. Yet how slowly my strength ebbs, How the tortured breast craves air. The love of my friends, my enemies' rancorAnd the yellow roses in my bushy garden, And a lover's burning tenderness?all thisI bestow upon you, messenger of dawn. Also the glory for which I was born, For which my star, like some whirlwind, soaredAnd now falls. Look, its fallingProphesies your power, love and inspiration. Preserving my generous bequest, You will live long and worthily. Thus it will be. You see, I am content, Be happy, but remember me.
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The crickets still sing in October. And lilly, she's trying to bloom. Tho she's resting her head on the shoulder of death, she still shines by the light of the moon.
death light moon sing head bloom moonlight
If you've got nothing to dance about, find a reason to sing.
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Words to invoke peace
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Sing your own song, Dance your own dance, Dream your own dream, Stake your own chance.
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