Quotes About A Sweet Voice

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Quotes About A Sweet Voice

The devil hath not, in all his quivers choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
— Lord Byron —

When John took those naked pictures, the most popular singer was a girl with a tiny stick body and a large deferential head, who sang in a delicious lilt of white lace and promises and longing to be close. When she shut herself up in her closet and starved herself to death, people were shocked. But starvation was in her voice all along. That was the poignancy of it. A sweet voice locked in a dark place, but focused entirely on the tiny strip of light coming under the door.
I drop the rag in the bucket and smoke some more, ashing into the sink,. A tiny piece of the movie from the naked time plays on my eyeball: A psychotic killer is blowing up amusement parks. At the head of the crowd clamoring to ride the roller coaster is a slim, lovely man with long blond hair and floppy clothes and big, beautiful eyes fixed on a tiny strip of light that only he can see.

— Mary Gaitskill

The Infinite
It was always dear to me, this solitary hill,
and this hedgerow here, that closes out my view,
from so much of the ultimate horizon.
But sitting here, and watching here, in thought,
I create interminable spaces,
greater than human silences, and deepest
quiet, where the heart barely fails to terrify.
When I hear the wind, blowing among these leaves,
I go on to compare that infinite silence
with this voice, and I remember the eternal
and the dead seasons, and the living present,
and its sound, so that in this immensity
my thoughts are drowned, and shipwreck seems sweet
to me in this sea.

— Giacomo Leopardi

Pity the nation whose people are sheep,
and whose shepherds mislead them.
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero
and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own
and no other culture but its own.
Pity the nation whose breath is money
and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
Pity the nation - oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away.
My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.

— Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Do you love me, Ally?" he asked in his sweet voice.
I stared into his eyes. I drew in a breath.
Then I answered, "Yes, Ren. I love you.

— Kristen Ashley

They're kids Apollo. Young kids. And they don't need to know their father has a bed partner."
"I won't exactly be sharing our play second for second at the breakfast table, Madeleine," he stated, his voice turning cold . "But to share your bed with a woman you care about is not something to be ashamed of."
"No, of course not, but-"
"And I'll not communicate that by hiding who you are to me."
That was nice, so nice.
But that didn't mean he wasn't moving too fast.
"That's sweet, honey, but-"
"And I'll not have it communicated to my children ... in any way ... that the act of love between two agreeable adults is something to hide because it's shameful.

— Kristen Ashley

When our Shepherd breaks our spiritual leg, the recovery can be oh, so sweet as we listen for His voice! EL

— Evinda Lepins

It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, with a strange music in it like none that he had ever heard and a sadness that he thought might break his heart. Bran squinted, to see her better. It was a girl, but smaller than Arya, her skin dappled like a doe's beneath a cloak of leaves. Her eyes were queer
large and liquid, gold and green, slitted like a cat's eyes. No one has eyes like that. Her hair was a tangle of brown and red and gold, autumn colors, with vines and twigs and withered flowers woven through it.
"Who are you?" Meera Reed was asking.
Bran knew. "She's a child. A child of the forest.

— George R.R. Martin

The bright bite in Mary Lee Kortes' voice [has] the high-mountain sunshine of Dolly Parton, with a sweet-iron undercoat of Chrissie Hynde.

— David Fricke

Here," Myrnin said, his voice still gentle and low. "Amelie said you had to work. No one said you had to work alone." He picked up the next part and slotted it in, took the screwdriver from Claire's numbed fingers, and fastened it with a couple of deft, fast movements. "I'll be your hands."
She wanted to cry, because it was so sweet, but it wouldn't do any good.

— Rachel Caine

This world is a bitter tree, it has only two sweet nectar like fruits - one is soft voice and the other is company of gentlemen.

— Chanakya

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