A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let read more

A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and long,
We lift our hearts in a loftier song:
We life our hearts to Heaven above,
Singing the glory of her we love,
England.

There are more love songs than anything else. If songs could make you do something we'd all love one another.

There are more love songs than anything else. If songs could make you do something we'd all love one another.

Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound;
She feels no biting pang the while she sings,
Nor read more

Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound;
She feels no biting pang the while she sings,
Nor as she turns the giddy wheel around,
Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things.

The lively Shadow-World of Song.

The lively Shadow-World of Song.

The song is ended / But the melody lingers on.

The song is ended / But the melody lingers on.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never read more

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Rumania

I cannot sing the old songs
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
read more

I cannot sing the old songs
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
With sleep-compelling croon;
Yet though I'm filled with music,
As choirs of summer birds,
"I cannot sing the old songs"--
I do not know the words.

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night.
read more

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night.
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.
Come, but one verse.

She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with
pity: and when winter evenings fall early read more

She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with
pity: and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry
wheel), she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of
fortune . . . and fears no manner of ill because she means none.