music (n.)
- arrangement
- babel
- clamor
- copy
- din
- draft
- edition
- harmonics
- harmony
- hubbub
- hullabaloo
- hymnal
- hymnbook
- jangle
- libretto
- musicality
- musicology
- notation
- opera
- pandemonium
- part
- racket
- rhythmics
- score
- songbook
- songster
- tablature
- text
- theory
- transcript
- transcription
- tumult
- uproar
- version
music (v.)
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
Architecture is frozen music.
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.
When his veering gait
And every motion of his starry train
Seem governed by a strain
Of music, audible to him alone.
If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour!
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,—
And oh, that eye was in itself a soul!
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
Makes a swan-like end,
Fading in music.
It will discourse most eloquent music.
Where music dwells
Lingering and wandering on as loth to die,
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.
Makes a swan-like end,
Fading in music.
When his veering gait
And every motion of his starry train
Seem governed by a strain
Of music, audible to him alone.
Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung.
His very foot has music in 't
As he comes up the stairs.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.
There is music in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument; for there is music wherever there is harmony, order, or proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres.
Except I be by Sylvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale.
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them;
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air (where it comes and goes, like the warbling of music) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants that do best perfume the air.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.
It is the little rift within the lute
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid to join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Oh, could you view the melody
Of every grace
And music of her face,
You 'd drop a tear;
Seeing more harmony
In her bright eye
Than now you hear.
But hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity.
Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
There is music in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument; for there is music wherever there is harmony, order, or proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres.
We join ourselves to no party that does not carry the flag and keep step to the music of the Union.
Some to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment hoodwink'd.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour
A thousand melodies unheard before!
Some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the music there.
These equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid to join,
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er;
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here we will sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins.
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.
Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Soft is the music that would charm forever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
The rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid's music.
Sundays observe; think when the bells do chime,
'T is angels' music.
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
And waste their music on the savage race.
What fairy-like music steals over the sea,
Entrancing our senses with charmed melody?
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
There is music in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument; for there is music wherever there is harmony, order, or proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres.
Where gripinge grefes the hart wounde,
And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse,
There music with her silver sound
With spede is wont to send redresse.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore.
Or if I would delight my private hours
With music or with poem, where so soon
As in our native language can I find
That solace?
He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage.
