Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Harping. 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 Harping Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Elihu Burritt,E.l. James,Emo Philips,Alan W. Watts,Lionel Barrymore for you to enjoy and share.
Kindness is the music of Good Will to men, and on this harp the smallest fingers may play heaven's sweetest tunes on earth.
Whining and panting beneath
So I'm at the wailing wall, standing there like a moron, with my harpoon.
Trying to pretend to oneself that a life of constant self frustration was in fact a great spiritual attainment.
I've played everything but the harp.
Me and my harp was a love affair from way back.
There's something fundamental to the harp that has retained its appeal my whole life. It's an instrument I am just in love with.
The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.
Prattle without practice
Your body is the harp of the soul.
Whether I pound or am being pounded, all the same there will be moaning!
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
Grouses that go unheard only grow louder, till they reach a level of frustration where they become silent but permanent disappointments.
The insupportable labor of doing nothing.
May my lips be a well-tuned harp to sound Thy praise. Let
Fairies, arouse! Mix with your song Harplet and pipe, Thrilling and clear, Swarm on the boughs! Chant in a throng! Morning is ripe, Waiting to hear.
Kaethe Schwehn's poignant memoir explores longing, both spiritual and physical, community and faith, in prose that is calm, lovely, and filled with clear-eyed honesty and grace. Tailings is simply an exquisite book.
Heaven must be populated with some rather strange creatures if all they lived for was to go to a place where they can strum harps for eternity.
Fretting springs from a determination to get our own way.
Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease.
Ser Rodrik groused. His opinion of singers was well known; music was a lovely thing for girls, but he could not comprehend why any healthy boy would fill his hand with a harp when he might have had a sword.
I am choking in the suffocating foul air of the harbor. I want to hoist my sails in the open sea, even though a tempest may be blowing. Furled sails are always dirty. Those who would deride me are so many furled sails. They can do nothing.
Pedantry. The delight in living. Brio. The chance to act, to mime, to mock, to mimic.
The dancing vortex of a sacred metaphor clashes horns and halos to make wounded music set to the tempo of a new era in brilliant labor.
You know what really keeps your staff on their toes? A harpoon gun.
So I have this word for much of what I do in life: 'plorking.' I'm not playing and I'm not working, I'm plorking.
... too much brooding, not enough doing.
23Away with your noisy hymns of praise! I will not listen to the music of your harps. 24Instead, I want to see a mighty flood of justice, an endless river of righteous living.
Griping is for those without a plan of action...
The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.
Our murmuring is the devil's music.
Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?
chanting. Neither any of the C.I.s, or this man here,
lilting cadence,
I never say 'nagging.' I think that 'nagging' is a term that men created to get women to pipe down some. But, it's a trap that we've created. We created several terms for women to back you down. Nagging means to stop asking me questions, then we get away with more. I think it's a term men created.
A musician's attempt to summarize his or her work leads to all this prescriptive chatter, or what I call the 'Modifier's Madness.' A lot of adjectives working overtime.
Be annoyed and sin not"
~R. Alan Woods [2012]
What the hell are you doing?" Nelson asked.
Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Chasing after words like trying to grab the tails of comets.
Not all the harps above Can make a heavenly place, If God His residence remove, Or but conceal His face. All thou needest to make thee blessed, supremely blessed, is to be with Christ.
The banquet is ready, and the minstrels are tuning their harps to celebrate the return from your wanderings to your Father's heart and home, with the gladness of feasting, and with the voice of thanksgiving and of melody.
Clamorous pauperism feastest
While honest Labor, pining, hideth his sharp ribs.
HOrrible. The most horrible sound on earth. The sound of death and torture and the agonies of a burning hell," Lisle said. "Damn them. It's bagpipes.
Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.
Before marriage, when a woman speaks to a man in an undertone, he calls it "cooing"; after marriage, he calls it nagging.
Is it the smoke?' the boy said, shivering slightly. 'I've never touched the stuff, myself, but how it claws at one ... like a thorn in every one of your fingers, and a string around your heart ... and one fees it always. Nagging. Nagging.
This banjo surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.
As we rode along LaBoeuf commenced whistling tunes, perhaps to take his mind off his sore arm. Rooster said, "God damn a man that whistles!" It was the wrong thing to say if he wished it to stop.
Basking in the light and glory that comes with not giving a damn.
Bobbing and weaving are methods and maneuvers by which we bend ethics, water down morals, and parse down values to serve our agendas.
They fix attention, heedless of your pain,
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain;
And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout,
They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.
The torment of personal relations. Nothing new there except in the disguise, and in the escape on the wings of adjectives. Sweet to be pierced by daggers at the end of paragraphs.
One hour in heaven, and we shall be ashamed that we ever grumbled.
We fret about how to keep going the same old way when we should be casting around for another way that's better.
needing to be somewhere (now). In fact, he still felt this compulsion. It gnawed stubbornly at
Trying to make it from the bottom. His sins
Feeling as hard as Vince Carter's knee cartilage is.
Fret not, fret not.
When you feel the need to moan and groan, laugh with woeful recognition and eat flaky pastries. If you hear yourself taking the art of complaining a little too seriously, ask yourself what you're trying to accomplish, exactly.
Hark, how chimes the passing bell! There's no music to a knell; All the other sounds we hear, Flatter, and but cheat our ear. This doth put us still in mind That our flesh must be resigned, And, a general silence made, The world be muffled in a shade.
If all the harps in the world were burned down, still inside the heart there will be hidden music playing.
I listened to the whine in my voice with a detached fascination. It was a false question. No answer would have pacified me. I had simply given in to a perverse need to ask, to expose and torment myself, and as soon as I heard the words, I experienced both relief and humiliation.
Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously comes the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts.
For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.
Wind of the night, Questing, swaying, calling, Rustle of dull grasses, Why do you trouble me?
Brooding over blunders is the biggest blunder
So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.
Embracing the torture, as I'm assaulted by my own thoughts. Like a locust giving birth to earworms. Eeeeew!
For can anything be sillier than to insist on carrying a burden one would continually much rather throw to the ground?
Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.
Learning
To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life.
A sense of wrongness, of fraught unease, as if long nails scraped the surface of the moon, raising the hackles of the soul.
The wretched hasten to hear of their own miseries.
Eager to please,
Trying to be what they need
But I'm so very tired
I've stopped trying to find
Any peace in my mind
Because it tangles the wires
When talent fails, indignation writes the verse.
The vague torment of ... ambition.
Groanings which cannot be uttered are often prayers which cannot be refused.
The chronic kicker, even the most violent critic, will frequently soften and be subdued in the presence of a patient, sympathetic listener - a listener who will be silent while the irate fault-finder dilates like a king cobra and spews the poison out of his system.
The curious hocus-pocus of criticism I can't take seriously. It consists in squirreling up some odd phrases and then waiting for a book to come running by.
The hooting of the owl with its tender wing is more familiar to me than the crowing of the cock. I prefer the strings to the woodwinds. Intermission: that is the darkness. The light feels like a vague scratching; it is malaise rather than pain. I am glad to sink back into darkness.
People who are upset about something ruminate on it whenever they get a chance; they are constantly drawn back to their own unhappy tale as if it were a horror story left open on a table.
Being. Not being. Giving in. Holding out. No matter what I do, it hurts.
In the hierarchy of instruments, if you're a harpist, you're considered someone with a brain much more than if you're a singer.
Forbear harping on what was of yore, for it is the common lot of mortals to sustain the ups and downs of fortune.
A soft hushing sound, like fingernails scratching down an endless sheet of paper.
Call me what instrume you will,though you can fret me,yet you cannot play upon me.
When I have no idea, I gnaw my nails and invoke the aid of Providence.
Now nothing can prevent this but mortification; that withers the root and strikes at the head of sin every hour, so that whatever it aims at it is crossed in.
striving for fabulousness.
BLARGLE SLORG NOTH HARGHLE FTHAGN! You know. The usual.
Eternally revolving wheel of avidity and suffering;
I sat still as stone with my fingers aching. I wanted to play, not listen. Want isn't strong enough a word. I was hungry for it, starved. I'm not proud of the fact that I thought about stealing his lute and leaving in the dark of the night.
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me?
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Where does music go when it's not playing? - she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: May they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string?
I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
bliss. Practicing
Bells, the poor man's only music.
Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like any thing!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the Echoes of the Past