Top 546 Sings Quotes & Sayings

I think everyone sings in the shower.

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,- When he beats his bars and would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings- I know why the caged bird sings!

How sweet the harmonies of the afternoon! The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams thro' whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly--while the Blackbird sings.

The violin sings.

Men who stand on any other foundation than the rock Christ Jesus are like birds that build in trees by the side of rivers. The bird sings in the branches, and the river sings below, but all the while the waters are undermining the soil about the roots, till, in some unsuspected hour, the tree falls with a crash into the stream; and then its nest is sunk, its home is gone, and the bird is a wanderer.

All of my kids are into music. My older daughter plays guitar, piano, sings. My young son, he sings.

This is truth the poet sings . . .

In my old age, it's kind of funny - at night, what I like to do is watch TV when I go to sleep. And what I really like is to put on a Gene Autry film, because he sings really well. So he sings me to sleep.

My sister sings, and my brother plays the keyboard.

Pride sings and dances; humility sighs.

I feel I'm an actress who sings a bit.

Every bird that sings, sings for you. Every breeze that blows, blows for you. Every sunray shines for you. If you only knew how loved you are.

He who sings frightens away his ills.

The activity of a singer that sings opera is similar to that of an athlete.

He who sings the praises of his boyhood's days.

I know that James Brown recording where he sings about Chicago. I think he sings, like, 'Chicago, my hometown!' That's what I think of when I think of Chicago. And I think of Chicago Bulls.

I know why the caged bird sings.

I'm always shocked by that! I'm not the singer, I'm the songwriter who sings.

I'm singing for the love of it/Have mercy on the man who sings to be adored.

We may stumble, but always there is that eternal voice, forever whispering within our ear, that thing which causes the eternal quest, that thing which forever sings and sings.

It's the impeded stream that sings

Marriage should be a duet - when one sings, the other claps.

The true self is not aware that it is a self. A bird, as it sings, sings itself. But not according to a picture. It has no idea of itself.

anyone who sings about love and harmony and life [john lennon] is dangerous to someone who sings about death and killing and subduing [Nixon]

But I really do have a soft spot for the solo shows. Any musician who writes and sings will tell you that's the center of it, that is it. It's almost like there's something church-like about it and you gotta go back there, if you're a songwriter that sings your material.

I'm in a house where if the washing machine shuts off, it sings a song. If iPad gets a message, it sings a song. I'm living in a real postmodern time - every single thing sings to you to tell you it's started, it's stopped, you've got a message, you didn't get a message.

The one who sings, prays twice.

The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.

John [Lennon] as a singer - the way he sings on "Twist and Shout" and the way he sings on "Strawberry Fields Forever" - is a very odd voice, in the sense that it seems to be celebrating but almost mourning at the same time. There's a quality of mourning to his voice, which is very enigmatic.

The whole truth... sings only - and all lovers are the song.

I was thinking a little bit about this very thing - poetry and music - the other day when I was listening to Lucinda Williams. The way she sings is very emotive, and there is a kind of drag to her articulation: she sings behind the beat, sort of like she's being pulled along by the song a little, or is in resistance to it.

Well I've been calling myself Scarlet Pattinson for several weeks. Have you seen Robert Pattinson? Hottest. Man. Ever. And no, I don't care if that makes me a couger. He sings with the voice of an angel. Gods, I love when a man sings to me. You never did because your voice is terrrible." She shuddered in distaste. "I swear, its like a demon running its claws over brimsone.

This wind is mystical yet tame, and it sings to me.

The first pair Opal and Amber are, Agate sings in B flat, the wolf avatar, A duet-solutio! - with Aquamarine. Mighty Emerald next, with the lovely Citrine. Number Eight is digestio, her stand is Jade fine. E major's the key of the Black Tourmaline, Sapphire sings in F major, and bright is her sheen. Then almost at once comes Diamond alone, Whose sign of the lion as Leo is known. Projectio! Time flows on, both present and past. Ruby red is the first and is also the last.

For some years now, I've been doing a program called "Sinatra Sings Sinatra." It's been going on virtually since the end of '98. Nineteen ninety-eight was the year Frank Sinatra died. ... Now having reached what would have been his 100th year - I decided back in 2013 when we started to put all of this together, I decided what we should do was the first "Sinatra Sings Sinatra" in which we go audio visual.

I could not be so sure of Spring / Save that it sings in me.

Prose talks and poetry sings.

In summer, the song sings itself.

The summit sings what is being spoken in the depths.

Money Talks. Chocolate Sings.

I'm the guy who sings in the shower, more than anything.

Because when he sings...even the birds stop to listen.

The opera isn't over until the fat lady sings.

My sparrow, she flickers and wakes and sings and sings.

If you listen, you can hear it. The city, it sings. If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of the street, on the roof of a house. It's clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface of things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you. It's a wordless song, for the most, but it's a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings. And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill, of things unknown, but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.

There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.

So I'm truly an actor who sings, and not a singer who acts.

He that sings on friday, will weepe on Sunday.

There're lots of musicians in my family, too. My mother sings incredibly well. I've got to make a record with my mother's voice on it. She sings a lyric soprano. We do the opposite. I'm a baritone. She's a star singer in her church. She always does her solo.

Faith is the bird that sings while it is yet dark.

Hope sings when all melodies are gone.

Everybody sings from their diaphragm.

A mockingbird has moved into our neighborhood. It perches atop a telephone pole behind our backyard. Every morning it is the first thing I hear. It is impossible to be unhappy when listening to a mockingbird. So stuffed with songs it is, it can't seem to make up it's mind which to sing first, so it sings them all, a dozen different songs at once, in a dozen different voices. On and on it sings without a pause, so peppy, even frantic, as if its voice alone is keeping the world awake.

I do not know who sings my songs / Before they are sung by me.

He who sings a song to Christ in the night, sings the best song in all the world; for he sings from the heart.

The wind comes creeping, it calls to me to come go exploring. It sings of the things that are to be found under the leaves. It whispers the dreams of the tall fir trees. It does pipe the gentle song the forest sings on gray days. I hear all the voices calling me. I listen. But I cannot go.

I would like to paint the way a bird sings.

Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.

The blood in my veins is frozen but it sings of love.