Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822): To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling.

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!

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894): The Voiceless.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing save the waves and I

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;

There, swan-like, let me sing and die.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 86. 16.

If thou would'st have me sing and play

As once I play'd and sung,

First take this time-worn lute away,

And bring one freshly strung.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): If Thou would'st have Me sing and play.

For all we know

Of what the blessed do above

Is, that they sing, and that they love.

Edmund Waller (1605-1687): While I listen to thy Voice.

I do but sing because I must,

And pipe but as the linnets sing.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): In Memoriam. xxi. Stanza 6.

The eagle suffers little birds to sing.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Titus Andronicus. Act iv. Sc. 4.

He knew

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

John Milton (1608-1674): Lycidas. Line 10.

Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring

Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly goddess, sing!

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Iliad of Homer. Book i. Line 1.

Three merry boys, and three merry boys,

And three merry boys are we,

As ever did sing in a hempen string

Under the gallows-tree.

John Fletcher (1576-1625): The Bloody Brother. Act iii. Sc. 2.

This child is not mine as the first was;

I cannot sing it to rest;

I cannot lift it up fatherly,

And bless it upon my breast.

Yet it lies in my little one's cradle,

And sits in my little one's chair,

And the light of the heaven she's gone to

Transfigures its golden hair.

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891): The Changeling.

'T is strange that death should sing.

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings

His soul and body to their lasting rest.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King John. Act v. Sc. 7.

Go, forget me! why should sorrow

O'er that brow a shadow fling?

Go, forget me, and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing!

Smile,—though I shall not be near thee;

Sing,—though I shall never hear thee!

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): Go, forget me!

Go, forget me! why should sorrow

O'er that brow a shadow fling?

Go, forget me, and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing!

Smile,—though I shall not be near thee;

Sing,—though I shall never hear thee!

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823): Go, forget me!