Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Clarions. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Clarions Quotes And Sayings by 90 Authors including John Milton,Virginia Woolf,Joann Rackear Goldrich,Debbie Ford,Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for you to enjoy and share.

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Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.
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But none speaks with a single voice. None with a voice free from the old vibrations. Always I hear corrupt murmurs; the chink of gold and metal. Mad music ...
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The velvet voice of her soul.
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Within ourselves, there are voices that provide us with all the answers that we need to heal our deepest wounds, to transcend our limitations, to overcome our obstacles or challenges, and to see where our soul is longing to go.
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Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.
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Each of you are a voice. Together we are a choir, a powerful choir of change that circles the globe with love.
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The bells themselves are the best of preachers, Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer.
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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master's humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:Though so exalted sheAnd I so lowly beTell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
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Sing out and say something, my hearties. Roar and pull, my thunderbolts! Beach me, beach me on their black backs, boys; only do that for me, and I'll sign over to you my Martha's Vineyard plantation, boys; including wife and children, boys.
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They tire of quiet, that have known the storm
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For pines are gossip pines the wide world through And full of runic tales to sigh or sing.
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Cold is our element and winter's air
Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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The sound of their voices mingled with the whicker of horses, the clank of steel, and the groaning hinges of the great bronze gates to make a strange and fearful music. In the sept they sing for the Mother's mercy but on the walls it's the Warrior they pray to, and all in silence.
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Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying.
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Your voices break and falter in the darkness, Break, falter, and are still.
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Voices
Voices in my head,
Chanting, 'Kisses. Bread.
Prove yourself. Fight. Shove.
Learn. Earn. Look for love',
Drown a lesser voice,
Silent now of choice:
'Breathe in peace, and be
Still, for once, like me'.
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And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
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Sounds of life and movement, people getting ready and people giving up, the sound of hope and the sound of hanging on, and behind them all, the quiet, deadly ticking of a thousand hungry clocks ...
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Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
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Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have set them down in notes.
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Old buildings whisper to us in the creaking of floorboards and rattling of windowpanes.
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What are we singers but the silver-voiced messengers of the poet and the musician?
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Are these the voices of our dead friends, or just the gramophone?
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Grace was pouring out everywhere, from hidden sounds, into Els's damaged auditory cortex. And all that secret, worldwide composition said the same thing: listen closer, listen smaller, listen lighter, to any noise at all, and hear what the world will still sound like, long after your concert ends.
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Sing, Muse, of high, moulded ceilings and built-in bookcases chockablock with hardcovers!
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A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air.
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The clatter of Crow calling to Crow - is there anywhere a friendlier, happier sound?
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You get a heck of a sound from the church. Can't you hear it in my voice?
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But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain. The wond'ring forests soon should dance again; The moving mountains hear the powerful call. And headlong streams hand listening in their fall!
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From what black wells of Acherontic fear or feeling, from what unplumbed gulfs of extra-cosmic consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity, were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn?
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The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
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The wolves of war are gathering. They sing a song of rotten bones.
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The choice word, the correct phrase, are instruments that may reach the heart, and awake the soul if they fall upon the ear in melodious cadence; but if the utterance be harsh and discordant they fail to interest, fall upon deaf ears, and are as barren as seed sown on fallow ground.
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On Sundays, at the matin-chime, The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray; Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Ride out to church from Chamberry, Dight with mantles gay, But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou.
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The silence became palpable and merciless in its depths. The only sound came from my car's radio. The Temptations towed me to tears.
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The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again, pronounce a text, Cry hem; and reading what they never wrote Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene!
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Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.
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So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept away into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing kkpast.
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Words are the fallen ruins of silent majesty.
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A shrieking battle cry echoed on the wind, a spine-tingling scream that sounded like the baying of the wolves closing in on their prey.
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The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.
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The voice is deep and soft, not a sound so much as a feeling. It is storm and wind and leaves twisting in the night. It is roots sucking deep at the earth, and the pale, sightless creatures that live below the ground. But there's something wrong with this voice, something diseased at its core.
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Listen: the dark we've only ever imagined now audible, thrumming,
marbled with static like gristly meat. a chorus of engines churns.
silence taunts: a dare. everything that disappears
disappears as if returning somewhere.
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Not the rich viol, trump, cymbal, nor horn,
Guitar, nor cittern, nor the pining flute,
Are half so sweet as tender human words.
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Still, small heavenly voices penetrate the heart with their gentle, convincing declarations ... Most often, hope, encouragement, and direction come from a soft, piercing voice. Small voices are heard only by those who are willing to listen.
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Come seek us where our voices sound, We cannot sing above the ground, And while you're searching, ponder this: We've taken what you'll sorely miss, An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took, But past an hour - the prospect's black, Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.
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Far beneath the rusty Baltimore dawn, stirrings in the maximum security ward. Down where it is never dark the tormented sense beginning day as oysters in a barrel open to their lost tide. God's creatures who cried themselves to sleep stirred to cry again and the ravers cleared their throats.
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How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator?
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I am listening for the voices Which I heard in days of old.
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Wilds whisper, yet I long for their roar.
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Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in Thee.
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Her sound is a siren's song, calling me to the rocks.
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A voice that had traversed the centuries, so heavy it broke what it touched, so heavy I feared it would ring in me with eternal resonance, a voice rusty with the sound of curses and the hoarse cries that issue from the delta in the last paroxysm of orgasm.
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I can feel them, can hear the rush of hundreds of feet, can hear old laughter running underneath the birdsong: a place built of memory and echo.
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The linden, in the fervors of July,
Hums with a louder concert. When the wind
Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime,
As when some master-hand exulting sweeps
The keys of some great organ, ye give forth
The music of the woodland depths, a hymn
Of gladness and of thanks.
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The voices were muffled; the din of a
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More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days, On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.
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The wheels hummed lullabies on the liquorice road ...
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I heard voices outside our front door - a woman's, bright as polished brass, and a man's, low and dark like the wood of the table I was working on. They were the kind of voices we heard rarely in our house. I could hear rich carpets in their voices, books and pearls and fur.
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Lion sounds that have not grown from the mouse may exude naked power ... but cannot convey any wisdom or understanding ... The initial steps on the path to courageous speech then are the first tentative steps into the parts of us that cannot speak.
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Whoo, Frisco nights, the end of the continent and the end of doubt, all dull doubt and tomfoolery, good-by
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Sound
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud
Is not its form
its voice
most palpable and loud?
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'Yela' represents hunger, life, light, fire, power. 'Wolf' speaks to my fighting spirit. The soul I put in my music.
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Do we not hear voices, gentle and great, and some of them like the voices of departed friends, - do we not hear them saying to us, Come up hither?
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The daemoniac rattle and wheeze of a blasphemous organ, choking and rumbling out the mockeries of hell in a cracked, sardonic bass.
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Bells, the poor man's only music.
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Perhaps on some quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive and wild - and perhaps with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country.
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In the outer city, the northern accents clamoring around
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Car horns, shrill and prolonged, blared one after another. Flashing sirens heralded endless emergencies, and a fleet of buses rumbled past, their doors opening and closing with a powerful hiss, throughout the night. The noise was constantly distracting, at times suffocating.
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They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
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The sea lions felt it and their barking took on a tone and a cadence that would have gladdened the heart of St. Francis. Little girls
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My sound is definitely what I like to call 'e-clectric.'
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The woods call to us with a hundred voices, but the sea has one only - a mighty voice that drowns our souls in its majestic music. The woods are human, but the sea is of the company of the archangels.
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I hear a sacred voice.
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When wombats do inspire/I strike my disused lyre
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Night Comes to the Cumberland.
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To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings/Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun/For my mean Pen are too superior things,
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The sirens droned on, a soprano counterpoint to the bombs' relentless bass, their pitch so eerily human it sounded like every soul in London had taken to their rooftops to cry out collective despair.
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Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmur of tender lullabies!
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Voices urging her to try, to reach into herself, to draw out the power. Voices that could turn hard and cold at the slight provocation. Voices that wheedled and threatened and lied.
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Forest, I fear you! In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.
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Lonely as America, a throatpierced sound in the night.
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The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people"- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.
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Imagine how titanic an echo chamber this great city would seem without the noise of eve none of mine. A huge bronze bell deprived of one hidden small iron clapper, its sole reason for being, its single means of song.
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I have heard African lions roar and the hacksaw cough of leopards just outside my safari tent, but neither of these is as haunting, as unsettling, as the savage symphony of gray wolves on a cold, still, northern night.
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What is South Africa's sound? What are they supposed to bring that ignites the rest of the body of Christ around the globe?
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Where thou art gone, adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
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Hills tell old stories. Cliffs are poets with harps
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Wild men, screaming through the keyholes.
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I hear the wind among the trees playing the celestial symphonies.
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A silence fell. Frogs in the night were calling, calling, calling.
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And the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and masts of ships.
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Precious souls are at high stakes when this world turns over with feet that quake. The timeless hearts of souls that make, beautiful music at no mistake. Peace love and light too all who demand, and together forever in on this earth we we will stand.
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Night winds in Georgia are vagrant poets, whispering.
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The thundering voice that wrings, in one dark, damning moment, crimes of years!
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The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.
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in a whisper so quiet I barely hear it, so loud it makes the earth tremble at my feet.
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Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, / Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
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The speakers sing with the sound, smiling to the heavens, angels dropping dead with the beautiful poison of her voice.
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Around, around, Companions all, take your ground, And name the bell with joy profound! CONCORDIA is the word we've found Most meet to express the harmonious sound, That calls to those in friendship bound.