Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Oh, give us the man who sings at his work.
Prose talks and poetry sings.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music. Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
The compelled mother loves her child as the caged bird sings. The song does not justify the cage nor the love the enforcement.