I love the song ‘I Hope You Dance’ by Lee Ann Womack. I was going to write that song, but someone beat me to it.
Sing me a new song; the world is transfigured; all the Heavens are rejoicing.
We are all treading the vanishing road of a song in the air, the vanishing road of the spring flowers and the winter snows, the vanishing roads of the winds and the streams, the vanishing road of beloved faces.
At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale’s song in the grove.
It gets quite difficult for me when I listen to pop music. I don’t often understand the words, but when someone translates them to me, I think, ‘What is this song representing? That women are just there to be treated like objects?’
You must pass your days in song. Let your whole life be a song.
Silence is more musical than any song.
If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.
I want my careless song to strike no minor key; no fiend to stand between my body’s Southern song – the fusion of the South, my body’s song and me.
What is the price of experience? Do men buy it for a song? Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price of all the man hath, his house, his wife, his children.