Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Lilting. 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 Lilting Quotes And Sayings by 91 Authors including E. E. Cummings,Izaak Walton,Mary Wollstonecraft,Lauren Oliver,William Carlos Williams for you to enjoy and share.
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
Those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art.
I like to see your eyes praise me and, during such recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.
Strains of music spring up, crystallizing in the night air like rain turning suddenly to snow, drifting to earth.
Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
Loafe with me on the grass - loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want - not custom or lecture, not even the best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
Tessie allowed Milton to press his clarinet to her skin and fill her body with music. At first it only tickled her. But after a while the notes spread deeper into her body. She felt the vibrations penetrate her muscles, pulsing in waves, until they rattled her bones and made her inner organs hum.
Not the rich viol, trump, cymbal, nor horn,
Guitar, nor cittern, nor the pining flute,
Are half so sweet as tender human words.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.
I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.
What Lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath.
When speech comes from a quiet heart, it has the strength of the orchid, and the fragrance of rock.
Nothing can stop the words so well as the mute alphabet of knit and purl. The curl of your cupped hand scoops up long drinks of calm. The rhythm you find is from down inside, rocking cradle, heartbeat, ocean. Waves on a rockless shore.
How silently the heart pivots on its hinge.
Here comes the time when, vibrating on its stem, every flower fumes like a censer; noises and perfumes circle in the evening air.
Lips unused to thee, Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee, Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums, Counts his nectars - enters, And is lost in balms!
Where does such tenderness come from
And what do I do with it, you, sly,
Adolescent, vagabond singer,
Whose lashes couldn't be longer?
The rustle of the leaves in summer's hush When wandering breezes touch them, and the sigh That filters through the forest, or the gush That swells and sinks amid the branches high,
'Tis all the music of the wind, and we Let fancy float on the aeolian breath.
Deaf folk hear the fairies However soft their song; 'Tis we who lose the honey sound Amid the clamor all around That beats the whole day long.
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
Rolling down the windows, yeah I got an air conditiona, but I got a sound I want the whole world to listenta.
Delicately he put the tiny needle to its task upon the revolving record. A thin and rasping Vienna waltz poured forth from the metal horn. I laughed to see it, this sweet invention, set before them like an offering. Was the waltz like incense rising in the air? But
In my song you catch at times Note sweeter far than mine, And in the tangle of my rhymes Can scent the eglantine.
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
A bird hopped onto the foaming lilac outside. Its throat quivered; notes rose and fell out. As long as it kept singing and I kept staring, I told myself, I wouldn't start crying.
One nightingale in an interfluous wood Satiate the hungry dark with melody.
It's like an angel crying on your tongue.
Feeling hearts
touch them but lightly
pour
A thousand melodies unheard before.
the whisper of space being compressed.
Standing still at dusk
Listen ... in far distances
The song of froglings!
Cicadas, buckling and unbuckling their stomach muscles, yield the sound of someone sharpening scissors. Fall field crickets, the thermometer hounds, add high-pitched tinkling chirps to the jazz, and their call quickens with warm weather, slows again with cool.
An Indigo Bunting let out a trill, a cheery song, reminding me of better days, of hope and happiness and all the lofty promises a blue canary can sing about. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the heady morning air. Looking within myself, I searched for the man I once was.
How soft indeed the song of butterflies eating.
While silently brooding, I am drawn to the start of a sweet melody that travels to my ear from afar. I smile, reminded that my heart can dance when my feet can't.
Gently touching with the charm of poetry.
Allie sighed. It was an old, yellow sound, like turning pages.
Roaming through the jungle of "Ohs" and "Ahs" searching for a more agreeable noise, I live a life of primitivity with the mind of a child and an unquenchable thirst for sharps and flats.
The sweetest softest melody, as good a sound as the laughter of a pretty girl, or your mother calling you to dinner.
I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs,
Yet, like a tree, endure the shift of things.
All the live murmur of a summer's day.
Each string of a wind harp responds with a different note to the same breeze. What activity makes you personally resonate most strongly, most deeply?
In our forests
part divine
and makes her heart palpitate
wild and tame are one. What a delicious Sound!
The nobleness of silence. The highest melody dwells only in silence,
the sphere melody, the melody of health.
Furious flutter awakened hummingbird heart hello hello love
Lillian is humming to herself, stretched out on top of my bookcase like she doesn't mind the heat, and of course she doesn't. Even when she was alive, she could never seem to get warm. The tune she's humming is thin and tight with anxiety. It's the opposite of carefree.
The quivering
of Psyche's butterflies.
There's so much spring in the air- there's so much lazy sweetness in your heart.
silent those sweet lips, Once breathing eloquence That might have soothed a tiger's rage Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.
I wonder what sound a breaking heart makes?
My heart stirring this way and that like so much hot soup,
(A name, at last. "Say it loud and there's music playing. Say it soft and it's almost like praying.")
The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now, if e'er you can.
Butterflies ... flowers that fly and all but sing.
Music pierces the sky.
When gloaming treads the heels of day
And birds sit cowering on the spray,
Along the flowery hedge I stray,
To meet mine ain dear somebody.
Light, the sweetness of sleepy robins whistling among the twilit maples, and the dance of a gusty group of daffodils blowing against the
loud laughter mixed with the chirp of crickets. A moth hit
She listens to the delicate fluttering of sparrows' wings, tiny messengers. The sound reminds her of life - struggling, beating, rising, flying, and now dissolving into space.
The wind hums low with sweet exultation, sings its lullaby, while you sleep ...
Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
Forget birds singing, bells ringing, brooks quaintly babbling over rocks. Choirs of angels could go hang. Her voice, even scratchy and weak, was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
Ask the world to reveal its quietude- not the silence of machines when they are still, but the true quiet by which birdsongs, trees, bellworts, snails, clouds, storms become what they are, and are nothing else.
howling alternately
In rising sighs and falling tears.
He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
..the happy hum of humanity.
What is the sound of an eighty-nine-year-old heart breaking?
Just dabbing pieces of my heart into things that make me shine, my little young simple life.
Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings.
In springtime, the only pretty ring time
Birds sing, hey ding
A-ding, a-ding
Sweet lovers love the spring -
So quiet ... it's like ... all the sounds in the world ... have been stopped ... only you scent ... in the deepest part of my heart ... echoing ...
Sound of snipping growing softer outside the window, Leo
The melody of music!
The quiet is fretful, unnatural. It's what a mouse must feel as it steps from its hole and into the open blades of a meadow, never knowing what shadow might come cruising above.
was the sound of the most beautiful girl in the whole of the British Isles laughing with delight and amusement.
Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save.
What is sweeter than lettered ease?
Gentle day's flower - The hummingbird competes With the stillness of the air.
Fair Maiden Lilliard lies under this stane, Little was her stature but great was her fame; Upon the English loons she laid many thumps, And when her legs were cuttied off she fought upon her stumps.
How noiseless falls the foot of time!
Damn it all! What rhymes with rhythm?
A thousand trills and quivering sounds In airy circles o'er us fly, Till, wafted by a gentle breeze, They faint and languish by degrees, And at a distance die.
Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.
By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows!
And at night, leaning against the frame of her window, Kate said the word aloud to herself for the pure pleasure of saying it, listening to the lovely, liquid opening of the vowel, and the v that close and contained it.
I play a piano of words - its icy tinkle echoes through your halls
Beat, beat, pause. Contract, expand. Inhale, exhale.
How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness
and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:
as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious
What a pity flowers can utter no sound!-A singing rose, a whispering violet, a murmuring honeysuckle ... oh, what a rare and exquisite miracle would these be!
The perfection of conversation is not to play a regular sonata, but, like the AEolian harp, to await the inspiration of the passing breeze.
What's that sound I hear?
It's just my lifetime
It's whistling past my ear
The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
the distant cries of the seagulls
elephant's trumpeting
Instruments sound sweetest when they are touched softest.
The only sounds here were lazy, ponderous, gentle sounds. A bee hung low in the warm afternoon haze, and he watched it unafraid, listened to the dull electric razor sound of its wings cutting the air. Birds sang sweet and unseen, and a hundred eyes watched him from the dark.
A soft hushing sound, like fingernails scratching down an endless sheet of paper.
Lili lili birdbath
sitting on a dirtpath
minnow sat on the rim and drank
slipped and in the water she sank
You could have heard a bee fluff