Soothing Song Quotes

His fingers touched the strings and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once.

Where did you hear that song?" I ask her without sitting up. "From the HC," she says, blushing. "A little girl sang it. It's soothing." "It's sad." "Most things are.

I shook again, tasted plum, and suddenly the words were pouring out of me."She said I sang before I spoke. She said when I was just a baby she had the habit of humming when she held me. Nothing like a song. Just a descending third. Just a soothing sound. Then one day she was walking me around the camp, and she heard me echo it back to her. Two octaves higher. A tiny piping third. She said it was my first song. We sang it back and forth to each other. For years."I choked and clenched my teeth. "You can say it,"Auri said softly."It's okay if you say it." "I'm never going to see her again,"I choked out. Then I began to cry in earnest. "It's okay,"Auri said softly."I'm here. You're safe.

...the magic place of soul-soothing dreams, where the silken sheen of polished glass under soft lights made her think of how lovely Heaven was going to be.

The Day is Done The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. 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.

Because there aren’t thousands of books and poems and movies out there to describe exactly what I’m feeling, or lyrically beautiful songs for me to cry to and sing along with in the car. There’s no guidebook on how to survive this kind of fallout, no prescribed remedy to soothe this particular kind of pain. Romantic breakups are romanticized constantly, talked about everywhere by everyone, but platonic breakups are swept to the side, suffered in secret, as if they’re somehow less important.

What madness, to love a man as something more than human! I lived in a fever, convulsed with tears and sighs that allowed me neither rest nor peace of mind. My soul was a burden, bruised and bleeding. It was tired of the man who carried it, but I found no place to set it down to rest. Neither the charm of the countryside nor the sweet scents of a garden could soothe it. It found no peace in song or laughter, none in the company of friends at table or in the pleasures of love, none even in books or poetry. Everything that was not what my friend had been was dull and distasteful. I had heart only for sighs and tears, for in them alone I found some shred of consolation.

We eagles sing no soothing songs. Our throats can only whistle. Instead, we hunt them down, take them from others.

I am not opposed to religion. Far from it. I’m for anything that gives people peace. That’s why I am also for hot tubs and compact discs of whale songs. Anything that soothes the soul is fine by me.

When something seems unbalanced and out of rhythm, just a song can tune things up in a moment. The power of music is therapy.

Dreams reveal facts about ourselves that we ignored. Dreams help us see hidden truths. Dreams, sometimes, are just soothing songs.

Most helpful, Mr. Caelum," she said. "Very, very useful information. And now, shall we hear from Saint Augustine?" I shrugged. "Why not?" I said Dr. P read from a blood-red leather book. "My soul was a burden, bruised and bleeding. It was tired of the man who carried it, but I found no place to set it down to rest. Neither the charm of the countryside nor the sweet scents of a garden could soothe it. It found no peace in song or laughter, none in the company of friends at table or in the pleasures of love, none even in books or poetry.... Where could my heart find refuge from itself? Where could I go, yet leave myself behind?" She closed the book, then reached across the table and took Maureen's hand in hers. "Does that passage speak to you?" she asked. Mo nodded and began to cry. "And so, Mr. Caelum, good-bye." Because the passage had spoken to me, too, it took me a few seconds to react. "Oh," I said. "You want me to leave?" "I do. Yes, yes.

so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, ‘I am guarding you—I am your support," but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorsely beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow—this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror.

The sweetest melody that plays on starry nights and wintry days, most soothing to my listening ears and calming to beleaguering fears, I call a symphony on air― the song of sweet, still silence rare.

A touch of ray on the stream A twinkle on waves and the sunset gleam I faintly remember seeing this picture Or maybe it was just a dream. Soothing solitude in the sky Of tired footprints and a probing eye I sparsely remember words of this song Or maybe it was a lullaby

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day, Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.<\I>

The mixtapes we made for ourselves were musical mirrors. The sadness, anger, or frustration you might be feeling at a given time could be encapsulated in the song selection. You made mixtapes that corresponded to emotional states, and they'd be avaliable to pop into the deck when each feeling needed reinforcing or soothing. The mixtape was your friend, your psychiatrist, and your solace.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

Thunder, Thunder, listen with wonder. Can you hear our relative the wind? The wind is singing a soothing song.

You have the lovers, they are nameless, their histories only for each other, and you have the room, the bed, and the windows. Pretend it is a ritual. Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows, let them live in that house for a generation or two. No one dares disturb them. Visitors in the corridor tip-toe past the long closed door, they listen for sounds, for a moan, for a song: nothing is heard, not even breathing. You know they are not dead, you can feel the presence of their intense love. Your children grow up, they leave you, they have become soldiers and riders. Your mate dies after a life of service. Who knows you? Who remembers you? But in your house a ritual is in progress: It is not finished: it needs more people. One day the door is opened to the lover's chamber. The room has become a dense garden, full of colours, smells, sounds you have never known. The bed is smooth as a wafer of sunlight, in the midst of the garden it stands alone. In the bed the lovers, slowly and deliberately and silently, perform the act of love. Their eyes are closed, as tightly as if heavy coins of flesh lay on them. Their lips are bruised with new and old bruises. Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled. When he puts his mouth against her shoulder she is uncertain whether her shoulder has given or received the kiss. All her flesh is like a mouth. He carries his fingers along her waist and feels his own waist caressed. She holds him closer and his own arms tighten around her. She kisses the hand besider her mouth. It is his hand or her hand, it hardly matters, there are so many more kisses. You stand beside the bed, weeping with happiness, you carefully peel away the sheets from the slow-moving bodies. Your eyes filled with tears, you barely make out the lovers, As you undress you sing out, and your voice is magnificent because now you believe it is the first human voice heard in that room. The garments you let fall grow into vines. You climb into bed and recover the flesh. You close your eyes and allow them to be sewn shut. You create an embrace and fall into it. There is only one moment of pain or doubt as you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body, but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away.

Thinking back, I don’t know how anyone else who grew up when I did didn’t become obsessed with true crime. The ’80s practically forced it down our throats in the name of TV ratings. There isn’t one person my age who doesn’t still get the chills when they hear the gravelly, soothing voice of Robert Stack or hear the creepy theme song from Unsolved Mysteries.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

She was heading for the piano, and something told me that it was her intention to sing old folk songs, a pastime to which, as I have indicated, she devoted not a little of her leisure. She was particularly given to indulgence in this nuisance when her soul had been undergoing an upheaval and required soothing, as of course it probably did at this juncture. My fears were realized. She sang two in rapid succession, and the thought that this sort of thing would be a permanent feature of our married life chilled me to the core.

Now what has kept your leaves so green, Arbre Fée de Bourlemont? The children's tears! They brought each grief, And you did comfort them and cheer Their bruisèd hearts, and steal a tear That, healèd, rose a leaf. And what has built you up so strong, Arbre Fée de Bourlemont? The children's love! They've loved you long Ten hundred years, in sooth, They've nourished you with praise and song, And warmed your heart and kept it young— A thousand years of youth! Bide always green in our young hearts, Arbre Fée de Bourlemont! And we shall always youthful be, Not heeding Time his flight; And when, in exile wand'ring, we Shall fainting yearn for glimpse of thee, O, rise upon our sight!

I FEEL THE EXPECTED longing of the ocean. I always feel it after I use my song. My chest aches. It burns, yearning to go under the water where it can be soothed and nourished. I don’t need the strength of the ocean to survive, though, only to replenish my song—to strengthen the part of me that I try to keep hidden. But replenishing my abilities has its own consequence. That other part of me tries to take over, something I can’t risk until after I’ve completed my mission.

Achilles nodded and bent over the lyre. I did not have time to wonder about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyes as he played. They were fine as lure strings themselves, and shone.

So many people had tried for Blake, but so many had failed. All it takes is one to be the glue. It’s going to be me. Livia moved quietly to straddle him. She put her hands on his scruffy cheeks. “I know all that you are. You almost don’t belong here, your soul’s so pure.” Livia put a hand on his chest. “You’re perfect to me. You’re chivalrous to me. I adore your manners. You can’t disappoint me. It’s not possible.” Livia leaned in and kissed him sweetly. See? See how much I can fix? Blake became absorbed by her hair, grabbing handfuls of it. He pulled her to his chest, combing it out with his fingers as he hummed a soothing song in her ear. The liquid velvet of his voice lifted her into dreams.

Your love is my treasure And my heart is buried there. Your touch is my pleasure Soothing my soul with every care.   Subject of my poetry, Love of my youth, Melody to my songs Of joy absolute, Would you believe me? I speak the truth When in poem and song I say to you, That when violets turn red And roses bloom blue That's the day I'll stop loving you.

There was a collective hope at the service that the children were in heaven. Riding ponies, playing bingo, exploring the sea. But I don’t think heaven is so much like earth. If heaven exists, I hope it is far beyond what we conjure with our gravity-soaked imaginations. To my mind, it is OK if there is no heaven. It is miraculous enough that Sam and Ramone lived. They were here, on earth, as themselves. The spontaneous eruption of an individual consciousness out of nothingness. I know this is too easy for me to say—I have one child healing, and the other murmuring self-soothing songs on the back of a blue bike. It is too easy. But still, it’s what I hold against my chest. They died, but, before that, they lived.

What I wanted to do was speak—I was dying to, with the wind curling in my lungs. I wanted to sing, to soothe the ache of it.

dreamed of all the ways we could soothe the Lisbon girls. Some of us wanted to lie down in the grass with them, or play the guitar and sing them songs.

Go gather by the humming sea Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell. And to its lips thy story tell, And they thy comforters will be. Rewording in melodious guile Thy fretful words a little while, Till they shall singing fade in ruth And die a pearly brotherhood; For words alone are certain good: Sing, then, for this is also sooth. -from "The Song of the Happy Shepherd

The Song Of The Happy Shepherd The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy; Yet still she turns her restless head: But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good. Where are now the warring kings, Word be-mockers?—By the Rood, Where are now the watring kings? An idle word is now their glory, By the stammering schoolboy said, Reading some entangled story: The kings of the old time are dead; The wandering earth herself may be Only a sudden flaming word, In clanging space a moment heard, Troubling the endless reverie. Then nowise worship dusty deeds, Nor seek, for this is also sooth, To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then, No learning from the starry men, Who follow with the optic glass The whirling ways of stars that pass— Seek, then, for this is also sooth, No word of theirs—the cold star-bane Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain, And dead is all their human truth. Go gather by the humming sea Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell. And to its lips thy story tell, And they thy comforters will be. Rewording in melodious guile Thy fretful words a little while, Till they shall singing fade in ruth And die a pearly brotherhood; For words alone are certain good: Sing, then, for this is also sooth. I must be gone: there is a grave Where daffodil and lily wave, And I would please the hapless faun, Buried under the sleepy ground, With mirthful songs before the dawn. His shouting days with mirth were crowned; And still I dream he treads the lawn, Walking ghostly in the dew, Pierced by my glad singing through, My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth: But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou! For fair are poppies on the brow: Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

Be near me now, My tormenter, my love, be near me— At this hour when night comes down, When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets, When it comes with cries of lamentation, with laughter with songs; Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step. At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places, Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil For hands still enfolded in sleeves; When wine being poured makes the sound of inconsolable children who, though you try with all your heart, cannot be soothed. When whatever you want to do cannot be done, When nothing is of any use; —At this hour when night comes down, When night comes, dragging its long face, dressed in mourning, Be with me, My tormenter, my love, be near me.

Song-Mi Lee,...her life wholly dedicated to protecting the great man against the importunities of the academic world and soothing his despair at no longer being able to achieve an erection or an original thought.

Kvothe?” Auri said softly. I clenched my teeth against the sobbing and lay still as I could, hoping she would think I was asleep and leave. “Kvothe?” she called again. “I brought you—” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Oh.” I heard a soft sound behind me. The moonlight showed her tiny shadow on the wall as she climbed through the window. I felt the bed move as she settled onto it. A small, cool hand brushed the side of my face. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Come here.” I began to cry quietly, and she gently uncurled the tight knot of me until my head lay in her lap. She murmured, brushing my hair away from my forehead, her hands cool against my hot face. “I know,” she said sadly. “It’s bad sometimes, isn’t it?” She stroked my hair gently, and it only made me cry harder. I could not remember the last time someone had touched me in a loving way. “I know,” she said. “You have a stone in your heart, and some days it’s so heavy there is nothing to be done. But you don’t have to be alone for it. You should have come to me. I understand.” My body clenched and suddenly the taste of plum filled my mouth again. “I miss her,” I said before I realized I was speaking. Then I bit it off before I could say anything else. I clenched my teeth and shook my head furiously, like a horse fighting its reins. “You can say it,” Auri said gently. I shook again, tasted plum, and suddenly the words were pouring out of me. “She said I sang before I spoke. She said when I was just a baby she had the habit of humming when she held me. Nothing like a song. Just a descending third. Just a soothing sound. Then one day she was walking me around the camp, and she heard me echo it back to her. Two octaves higher. A tiny piping third. She said it was my first song. We sang it back and forth to each other. For years.” I choked and clenched my teeth. “You can say it,” Auri said softly. “It’s okay if you say it.” “I’m never going to see her again,” I choked out. Then I began to cry in earnest. “It’s okay,” Auri said softly. “I’m here. You’re safe.

It is a wonderful morning with the sun shining bright and flowers smiling. There is a sweet breeze kissing my face while a hot cup of coffee warms my heart and awakens my mind. The primordial songs of ocean waves are soothing my soul. I am not on earth; I am in heaven on earth.

A black-headed grosbeak, sensing the tension, broke into a warble. The song was his father’s father’s father’s song, unrepeatable by any other living being. It was a song about kindness, a unique and casual caroling. It was soothing and leisurely and all his to share with the hundreds of beings around him.

I once was a stranger to grace and to God, I knew not my danger, and felt not my load; Though friends spoke in rapture of Christ on the tree, Jehovah Tsidkenu was nothing to me. I oft read with pleasure, to sooth or engage, Isaiah’s wild measure and John’s simple page; But e’en when they pictured the blood sprinkled tree Jehovah Tsidkenu seemed nothing to me. Like tears from the daughters of Zion that roll, I wept when the waters went over His soul; Yet thought not that my sins had nailed to the tree Jehovah Tsidkenu—’twas nothing to me. When free grace awoke me, by light from on high, Then legal fears shook me, I trembled to die; No refuge, no safety in self could I see— Jehovah Tsidkenu my Saviour must be. My terrors all vanished before the sweet Name; My guilty fears banished, with boldness I came To drink at the fountain, life giving and free— Jehovah Tsidkenu is all things to me. Jehovah Tsidkenu! my treasure and boast, Jehovah Tsidkenu! I ne’er can be lost; In Thee I shall conquer by flood and by field, My cable, my anchor, my breast-plate and shield! Even treading the valley, the shadow of death, This “watchword” shall rally my faltering breath; For while from life’s fever my God sets me free, Jehovah Tsidkenu, my death song shall be.

The song that comes to me is a simple lullaby, one we sing fretful, hungry babies to sleep with. It’s old, very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills. What my music teacher calls a mountain air. But the words are easy and soothing, promising tomorrow will be more hopeful than this awful piece of time we call today.

From inside Dancy's warm, safe womb Bonaventure heard two voices singing, and his little heart beat out a raining tattoo as if to keep in time with the song. He had no suspicion that anything had changed, because for him they had not; he'd always known these two voices, one soft, one deep and had always found them soothing.

The gruff murmur, irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes which had kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (as she sat in the window which opened on the terrace), that the men were happily talking; this sound, which had lasted now half an hour and had taken its place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then, "How's that? How's that?" of the children playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, "I am guarding you––I am your support," but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow––this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror.

It didn’t talk about pretty lights, love, or shiny stars, but when he called me kid, it felt like somebody grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my OCD cycle. It was soothing, it was freedom. It was so weird. I felt like I had known him for years. I had become so weak from the inside that even the slightest word of comfort blew this intense emotion in me. — Arya Kashyap

Shhh, Eena, it’s going to be okay. I promise, you’ll get through this.” She didn’t fight him, but grabbed onto his shirt, weeping softly into it as before. He began to hum faintly, a familiar Earth tune. Soon he was singing the words in that deep, consoling voice of his. The song itself was meant to be comforting, and his tender manner made it that much more effectual. Eena recognized the song. She fell asleep to the soothing lyrics. Abide with me fast falls the eventide. The darkness deepens. Lord with me abide. When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me. He went on to sing the other verses, hoping to ease her broken heart. Until her grief finally healed, no matter how long it took, he’d be there for her.

A morning-flowered dalliance demured and dulcet-sweet with ebullience and efflorescence admiring, cozy cottages and elixirs of eloquence lie waiting at our feet - We'll dance through fetching pleasantries as we walk ephemeral roads evocative epiphanies ethereal, though we know our hearts are linked with gossamer halcyon our day a harbinger of pretty things infused with whispers longing still and gamboling in sultry ways to feelings, all ineffable screaming with insouciance masking labyrinthine paths where, in our nonchalance, we walk through the lilt of love’s new morning rays. Mellifluous murmurings from a babbling brook that soothes our heated passion-songs and panoplies perplexed with thought of shadows carried off with clouds in stormy summer rains… My dear, and that I can call you 'dear' after ripples turned to crashing waves after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained we find our palace sunned and rayed with quintessential moments lit with wildflower lanterns arrayed on verandahs lush with mutual love, the softest love – our preferred décor of life's lilly-blossom gate in white-fenced serendipity… Twilight sunlit heavens cross our gardens, graced with perseverance, bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate as a morning dove of charm and mirth – at least with me; our misty mornings glide through air... So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry - of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven in chandliers of winglet cherubs wrought with time immemorial, crafted with innocence, stowed away and brought to light upon our day in hallelujah tapestries of ocean-windswept galleries in breaths of ballet kisses, light, skipping to the breakfast room cascading chrysalis's love in diaphanous imaginings delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed as in our eyes which come to rest evocative, exuberant on one another’s moon-stowed dreams idyllic, in quiescent ways, peaceful in their radiance resplendent with a myriad of thought soothing muse, rhapsodic song until the somnolence of night spreads out again its shaded truss of luminescent fantasies waiting to be loved by us… Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged! I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear, and on and on and on and on - as if our hours were endless here… A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips exalting transcendent minds suffused with sunrise symphonies organic-born tranquilities sublimed sonorous assemblages with scintillas of eternity beating at our breasts – their embraces but a blushing, longing glance away… I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn' before cacophony and chafe coarse in crude and rough abrade when cynical distrust is laid by hoarse and leeching parasites, distaste fraught with smug disgust by hairy, smelly maladroit mediocrities born of poisoned wells grotesque with selfish lies - shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping around our love, as if they rose from Edgar Allen’s own immortal rumpled decomposing clothes… Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry! can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you for so long, in my morning imaginings, through these words, through this song - ‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat," but little treats do sometimes last a little longer; and, oh, but oh, but if I could, I surly would keep you just a little longer tarrying here, tarrying here with me this pleasant morn

Can we wait just a minute Turn that TV off for a minute Now politics and talkin shit aint really none of my buisness Lets go and play the songs we used to play On that old school radio Let the music soothe your soul Forget about the world Im groovin with my girl Forget about the news Lets put on our dancin shoes Lets not talk about the war Do we know what they fightin for I propose that we go to the floor and we slow dance

I carried the cups out to the kitchen, and inside of me long, mysterious words began to crawl across my soul like a protective membrane. A song, a poem, something soothing and rhythmic and immensely pensive, but never distressing or sad, as I knew the rest of my day would be distressing and sad. When these light waves of words streamed through me, I knew that my mother couldn’t do anything else to me because she had stopped being important to me.

We need to have a serious discussion about your leadership skills, Miss Foster,” Bronte’s sharp voice barked the next morning, jolting Sophie out of the dazed, half-sleepy state she’d been lingering in since sunrise. “And perhaps also about your strange choices for sleeping location.” Some part of her brain had been telling her that she needed to get up and get ready for a big day of super-important stuff. The other part had decided that all of that stuff could wait a tiny bit longer. And then a tiny bit longer after that. And a little more after that. As if she’d found some sort of strange mental snooze button—which she was happy to keep hitting as long as it let her stay surrounded by baby alicorns and Calla’s soothing songs instead of having to face reality. And now her entire brain was telling her that the best solution to her current situation was to pull her blankets over her head and wait for Bronte to go away.

But too often the media are instead complacent, satisfied with pictures over understanding, conflict over content, profit over purpose. The media amuse and distract rather than disturb and focus. The media excel at entertainment and escape. They too often allow us to avoid the real troubles of the world with barking broadcasters, lavish films, sooth-ing songs, endless e-mail, and infinite networking. At times, the media are even complicit in the division and deprivation that disfigure this globe. They profit from tragedy. They produce a “pornography of grief.

Be near me" Be near me now, My tormenter, my love, be near me— At this hour when night comes down, When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets, When it comes with cries of lamentation,                                              with laughter with songs; Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step. At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places, Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil For hands still enfolded in sleeves; When wine being poured makes the sound                                              of inconsolable children                       who, though you try with all your heart,                                              cannot be soothed. When whatever you want to do cannot be done, When nothing is of any use; —At this hour when night comes down, When night comes, dragging its long face,                                              dressed in mourning, Be with me, My tormenter, my love, be near me.              Faiz Ahmed Faiz, The True Subject. Translated by Naomi Lazard. (Princeton University Press. 1987)

Emma become secretly thrilled that she had reached at a first try the uncommon best of light lives, in no way attained by means of mediocre hearts. She permit herself float at the side of Lamartine meanderings, listened to harps on lakes, to all the songs of death swans, to the falling of the leaves, the natural virgins ascending to heaven, and the voice of the Eternal discoursing down the valleys. She wearied of it, would now not confess it, persevered from dependancy, and at closing was amazed to sense herself soothed, and with out a more dissapointment at coronary heart than wrinkles on her brow.

I scrambled onto the bed, lunging for him, feeling what was his arm, then his stomach, then his shoulders. His skin was freezing as I gripped his shoulders and shouted his name. No response, and I slid a hand up his neck, to his mouth- to make sure he was still breathing, that this wasn't his power floating away from him- Icy breath hit my palm. And bracing myself, I rose up on my knees, aiming blindly and slapping him. My palm stung- but he didn't move. I hit him again, pulling on that bond between us, shouting his name down it like it was a tunnel, banging on that wall of ebony adamant within his mind, roaring at it. A crack in the dark. And then his hands were on me, flipping me, pinning me with expert skill to the mattress, a taloned hand at my throat. I went still. 'Rhysand.' I breathed. Rhys, I said, through the bond, putting a hand against that inner shield. The dark shuddered. I threw my own power out- black to black, soothing his darkness, the rough edges, willing it to calm, to soften. My darkness sang his own a lullaby, a song my wet nurse had hummed when my mother had shoved me into her arms to go back to attending parties. 'It was a dream,' I said. His hand was so cold. 'It was a dream.' Again, the dark paused. I sent my own veils of night brushing up against it, running star-flecked hands down it. And for a heartbeat, the inky blackness cleared enough that I saw his face above me: drawn, lips pale, violet eyes wide- scanning. 'Feyre,' I said. 'I'm Feyre.' His breathing was jagged, uneven. I gripped the wrist that held my throat- held, but didn't hurt. 'You were dreaming.' I willed that darkness inside myself to echo it, to sing those raging fears to sleep, to brush up against that ebony wall within his mind, gentle and soft... Then, like snow shaken from a tree, his darkness fell away, taking mine with it. Moonlight poured in- and the sounds of the city.

Achilles nodded and bent over the lyre. I did not have time to wonder about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all my thought were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyes as he played. They were fine as lyre strings themselves, and shone. He stopped, pushed back his hair, and turned to me. "Now you." I shook my head, full to spilling. I could not play now. Not ever, if I could listen to him instead.

. . so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, “I am guarding you—I am your support,” but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow . . .   —Virginia Woolf

Dance with me', he says. There is a longing in his voice, and loss, and she thinks, perhaps, it is the end, of this, of them. A game finally played out. A war with no winners. And so she agrees to dance. There is no music, but it does not matter. When she takes his hand, she hears the melody, soft and soothing in her head. Not a song, exactly, but the sound of the woods in summer, the steady hush of the wind through the fields. And as he pulls her close, she hears a violin, low and mournful, along the Seine. His hand slides through hers, and there is the steady murmur of the seaside. The symphony soaring through Munich. Addie leans her head against his shoulder, and hears the rain falling in Villon, the brass band ringing in an L.A. lounge, and the ripple of a saxophone thorugh the open windows on Bourbon.

My taste in poetry is for delicate and fragile things—to honest, for artificial things. I like a frail but perfectly articulated stanza, a sonnet wrought like ivory, a song full of glowing nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, conjunctions, prepositions and participles, but without much hard sense to it. Poetry, to me, has but two meanings. On the one hand, it is a magical escape from the sordidness of metabolism and the class war, and on the other hand it is a subtle, very difficult and hence very charming art, like writing fugues or mixing mayonnaise. I do not go to poets to be taught anything, or to heated up to indignation, or to have my conscience blasted out of its torpor, but to soothed and caressed, to be lulled with sweet sounds, to be wooed into forgetfulness, to be tickled under the metaphysical chin.

A feeling of slow motion came upon me then, and parts of my bike scratched against bits of my body. Slimy seaweed tangled around my ankles and my shoes slipped off my feet. My arms and legs were dragged in different directions as if there was an underwater force making me dance to a morbid tune. I felt light. I felt slow. I felt fast - all in quick succession, but I couldn't think of anything except the quite relaxing idea that soon everything was going to be over. I was alone. All around the wet rocks were silent and slimy. I couldn't feel any pleasure or any purpose. My decision seemed to make a terrible kind of sense My panic had gone. I was finished making decisions. I didn't think I'd ever have any more to make. I'm not exactly sure what I'd been hoping for next. Brightness and song possibly. Beautiful music perhaps, say a harp or something playing in the distance and warmth to soothe my numb, frozen, sopping, scraped body. I definitely wasn't expecting what happened next.

Tonight, an old ache awakens within me, a yearning that threads through my veins like a distant song. I am consumed by a passion that seizes every corner of my soul, an urgent fire that longs to be stoked by your touch. The thought of you ignites a blaze that refuses to be contained, a hunger for the nights we could share, where our bodies speak the language of longing, and every moment is a tender exploration of desire. I feel us entwined already, as if our souls have danced together before. Without you, I wander in a sea of echoes, lost in the silent spaces where your presence should be. You are not just a lover; you are the very pulse of my heart. In your embrace, I find a completeness that words cannot capture, a connection that feels ancient and profound— a bond that burns fiercely, beautifully, even as it breaks my heart. Please, let us come together soon. I am aching with a fervor that only you can soothe, burning with a passion that is both a comfort and a torment, an insatiable need to be near you, to lose myself in the warmth of our union. All I desire is to be with you, to surrender to the depth of our shared longing, for you are the world to me, the fire that lights my darkest nights.

But here, as she turned the page, suddenly her search for the picture of a rake or a mowing-machine was interrupted. The gruff murmur, irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes which had kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (as she sat in the window), that the men were happily talking; this sound, which had lasted now half an hour and had taken its place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then, “How’s that? How’s that?” of the children playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, “I am guarding you—I am your support”, but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow—this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror.

Humans were such tricky and complicated things. As it began to spin life and being out of its dreamstuff, the remaining trees began to hum and sing together. Once upon a time, their songs had sounded different, but in this time, they sang the songs the Greywaren had given to them. It was a wailing, ascending tune, full of both misery and joy at once. And as Cabeswater distilled its magic, these trees began to fall, one by one. The psychic's daughter's sadness burst through the forest, and Cabeswater accepted that, too, and put it into the life it was building. Another tree fell, and another, and Cabeswater kept returning again and again to the humans who had made the request. It had to remember what they felt like. It had to remember to make itself small enough. As the forest diminished, the Greywaren's despair and wonder surged through Cabeswater. The trees sang soothingly back to him, a song of possibility and power and dreams, and then Cabeswater collected his wonder and put it into the life it was building. And finally, the magician's wistful regret twisted through what remained of the trees. Without this, what was he? Simply human, human, human. Cabewaster pressed leaves against his cheek one last time, and then they took that humanity for the life it was building. It was nearly human-shaped. It would fit well enough. Nothing was ever perfect. Make way for the Raven King. The last tree fell, and the forest was gone, and everything was absolutely silent. Blue touched Gansey's face. She whispered, "Wake up.

It was when they determined that I had been born dead That my life became easier to understand. For a long time, I wondered why rooms felt colder when I entered them, Why nothing I said seemed to stick in anyone’s ear, Frankly, why I never had any money. I wondered Why the cities I walked through drifted into cloud Even as I admired their architecture, as I pointed out The cornerstones marked “1820,” “1950.” The only songs I ever loved were filled with scratch, dispatches from A time when dead ones like me were a dime a dozen. I spent my life in hotels: some looked like mansions, Some more like trailer parks, or pathways toward A future I tried to point to, but how could I point, With nothing but a hand no hand ever matched, With fingers that melted into words that no one read. I rehearsed names that others taught me: Caravaggio, Robert Brandom, Judith, Amber, Emmanuelle Cat. I got hungry the way only the dead get hungry, The hunger that launches a thousand dirty wars, But I never took part in the wars, because no one lets A dead man into their covert discussions. So I drifted from loft to cellar, ageless like a ghost, And America became my compass, and Europe became The way that dead folks talk, in short, who cares, There’s nothing to say because nobody listens, There’s no radio for the dead and the pillows seem Like sand. Let me explain: when you’re alive, As I understand it, pillows cushion the head, the way A lover might soothe the heart. The way it works for me, In contrast, is everything is sand. Beds are sand, The women I profess to love are sand, the sound of music In the darkest night is sand, and whatever I have to say Is sand. This is not, for example, a political poem, Because the dead have no politics. They might have A hunger, but nothing you’ve ever known Could begin to assuage it.

How can I tell of the rest of creation, with all its beauty and utility, which the divine goodness has given to man to please his eye and serve his purposes, condemned though he is, and hurled into these labors and miseries?  Shall I speak of the manifold and various loveliness of sky, and earth, and sea; of the plentiful supply and wonderful qualities of the light; of sun, moon, and stars; of the shade of trees; of the colors and perfume of flowers; of the multitude of birds, all differing in plumage and in song; of the variety of animals, of which the smallest in size are often the most wonderful,--the works of ants and bees astonishing us more than the huge bodies of whales?  Shall I speak of the sea, which itself is so grand a spectacle, when it arrays itself as it were in vestures of various colors, now running through every shade of green, and again becoming purple or blue?  Is it not delightful to look at it in storm, and experience the soothing complacency which it inspires, by suggesting that we ourselves are not tossed and shipwrecked?  [1664]What shall I say of the numberless kinds of food to alleviate hunger, and the variety of seasonings to stimulate appetite which are scattered everywhere by nature, and for which we are not indebted to the art of cookery?  How many natural appliances are there for preserving and restoring health!  How grateful is the alternation of day and night!  how pleasant the breezes that cool the air!  how abundant the supply of clothing furnished us by trees and animals!  Who can enumerate all the blessings we enjoy?  If I were to attempt to detail and unfold only these few which I have indicated in the mass, such an enumeration would fill a volume.  And all these are but the solace of the wretched and condemned, not the rewards of the blessed.  What then shall these rewards be, if such be the blessings of a condemned state?

I don’t believe in love that never ends,” said Aiden, his whisper clear and distinct. “I don’t believe in being true until death or finding the other half of your soul.” Harvard raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Privately, he considered that it might be good that Aiden hadn’t delivered this speech to this guy he apparently liked so much—whom Aiden had never even mentioned to his best friend before now. This speech was not romantic. Once again, Harvard had to wonder if what he’d been assuming was Aiden’s romantic prowess had actually been many guys letting Aiden get away with murder because he was awfully cute. But Aiden sounded upset, and that spoke to an instinct in Harvard natural as breath. He put his arm around Aiden, and drew his best friend close against him, warm skin and soft hair and barely there shirt and all, and tried to make a sound that was more soothing than fraught. “I don’t believe in songs or promises. I don’t believe in hearts or flowers or lightning strikes.” Aiden snatched a breath as though it was his last before drowning. “I never believed in anything but you.” “Aiden,” said Harvard, bewildered and on the verge of distress. He felt as if there was something he wasn’t getting here. Even more urgently, he felt he should cut off Aiden. It had been a mistake to ask. This wasn’t meant for Harvard, but for someone else, and worse than anything, there was pain in Aiden’s voice. That must be stopped now. Aiden kissed him, startling and fierce, and said against Harvard’s mouth, “Shut up. Let me… let me.” Harvard nodded involuntarily, because of the way Aiden had asked, unable to deny Aiden even things Harvard should refuse to give. Aiden’s warm breath was running down into the small shivery space between the fabric of Harvard’s shirt and his skin. It was panic-inducing, feeling all the impulses of Harvard’s body and his heart like wires that were not only crossed but also impossibly tangled. Disentangling them felt potentially deadly. Everything inside him was in electric knots. “I’ll let you do anything you want,” Harvard told him, “but don’t—don’t—” Hurt yourself. Seeing Aiden sad was unbearable. Harvard didn’t know what to do to fix it. The kiss had turned the air between them into dry grass or kindling, a space where there might be smoke or fire at any moment. Aiden was focused on toying with the collar of Harvard’s shirt, Aiden’s brows drawn together in concentration. Aiden’s fingertips glancing against his skin burned. “You’re so warm,” Aiden said. “Nothing else ever was. I only knew goodness existed because you were the best. You’re the best of everything to me.” Harvard made a wretched sound, leaning in to press his forehead against Aiden’s. He’d known Aiden was lonely, that the long line of guys wasn’t just to have fun but tied up in the cold, huge manor where Aiden had spent his whole childhood, in Aiden’s father with his flat shark eyes and sharp shark smile, and in the long line of stepmothers who Aiden’s father chose because he had no use for people with hearts. Harvard had always known Aiden’s father wanted to crush the heart out of Aiden. He’d always worried Aiden’s father would succeed. Aiden said, his voice distant even though he was so close, “I always knew all of you was too much to ask for.” Harvard didn’t know what to say, so he obeyed a wild foolish impulse, turned his face the crucial fraction toward Aiden’s, and kissed him. Aiden sank into the kiss with a faint sweet noise, as though he’d finally heard Harvard’s wordless cry of distress and was answering it with belated reassurance: No, I’ll be all right. We’re not lost. The idea of anyone not loving Aiden back was unimaginable, but it had clearly happened. Harvard couldn’t think of how to say it, so he tried to make the kiss say it. I’m so sorry you were in pain. I never guessed. I’m sorry I can’t fix this, but I would if I could. He didn’t love you, but I do.

My intellectual depravity kept me from completely enjoying what surrounded me. I am sure that, in what little I might have tried to say, I was going to ridicule, diminish and materialize everything. In that strange and almost indescribable scenery, so superior to what I was normally able to see, I imagined—obviously an effect of my blind rudeness—that I came across things that faintly resembled the most beautiful things I had contemplated on the sublunary globe. I believed I saw a flower: I beheld something like large woods whose trees were only flowers; nothing but petals, corollas and calyces, fragrant and cradled by a breeze that itself was plainly perfumed with floral breaths—and just as sweet. All the nuances of the rose adorned these gigantic fluttering bouquets. Some of the roses, brown-lipped roses, were so unbelievably arousing and voluptuous—if I can speak like this—that I felt like they rejuvenated my soul. A flower often stood alone, as big as a tree—and with such a divine form, such an embracing scent—that’s the only word that translates, a little ridiculously, what I felt—that the air wafting around it would kill a normal human being with excessive pleasure. Because I was disembodied, I could breath it in with no harm—and even blend myself, overcome by joy, with its intoxicating, incarnadine cloud. Large, flashy birds flew among the heights of the flower-trees where they sometimes alit like snuggling light. Their slow-noted songs evoked a magical past more enticing even than this splendid present. The sky was pink and gold. Pink fountains flowed there, flashing with gold—whose music could only be compared to harps that had —absurdly—crystal strings—and to go further in absurdity: living crystal. All this nature seemed enshrouded—and at the same time penetrated—with a tender cheerfulness. I floated in the pink perfumes of the woods, in the soothing radiance of the glades, in all that gentleness and beauty that felt like an infinite bounty manifested by transportive images and by an immaterial well being… And even though I desperately did not want to leave this atmosphere of delights—which I can give no real idea of—I felt unbalanced, brutal and out of place among the ethereal sweetness. A charitable, sorrowful force (I felt it) chased me away almost in spite of itself in order to cut me off from these joys I was unworthy of.

LXXII In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee, And as the flames along their faces gleam’d, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that to their girdles stream’d, While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half scream’d: Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy ’larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o’er. Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. Remember the moment when Previsa fell, The shrieks of the conquer’d, the conquerors’ yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughter’d, the lovely we spared. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: Since the days of our prophet, the Crescent ne’er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread; When his Delhis come dashing in blood o’er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! Selictar, unsheath then our chief’s scimitar: Tambourgi! thy ’larum gives promise of war; Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more!

Where Would I Be Without You It is the whisper of Your love that builds me up, It is the dew drops of Your mercy that freshen my soul, It is the wonder of Your grace that sustains me, It is the shadow of Your wings that cushions me, It is the power of Your righteous right hand that quickens my feeble knees. It is Your kind-hearted nature that keeps me going, It is Your gentle touch that soothes my inner being, It is the beauty of Your love that gives me a song to sing. Where would I be without you Lord Jesus.

Where Would I Be Without You It is the whisper of Your love that builds me up, It is the dew drops of Your mercy that freshen my soul, It is the wonder of Your grace that sustains me, It is the shadow of Your wings that cushions me, It is the power of Your righteous right hand that quickens my feeble knees. It is Your kind-hearted nature that keeps me going. It is Your voice of healing that gives me peace, It is Your gentle touch that soothes my inner being, It is the beauty of Your love that gives me a song to sing. Where would I be without You Lord Jesus.

Odysseus enjoyed the intellectual stimulus these encounters with the King provided. On the one hand there was the desire for power and loot, on the other the deliberate killing of an innocent. If you softened the first by mixing in notions of public service, the need for living space and wider markets to serve a growing population, and submerged the second in the heavy burden of command, the problem ceased to exist, they became the same thing, they blended into a single notion of painful duty. How Agamemnon loved it, this painful duty, how he drank it in, how it soothed him. Therapy, really. Of course, after a while things started to slide apart again, and the King became confused and sometimes gasped for air; then some further restoration work was required.

One night he left his tent and rambled around aimlessly in the sleeping camp. He wandered to the enclosure where the captives’ tents stood near the banks of the river Rha. The night was cold, silvery with moonlight, and silent; he could hear the river gently lapping against its banks. It was a sweet, soothing sound like the lullaby his mother used to sing. As he listened a change came into the rhythm of the river’s song—now it was sad, yearning . . . and he could hear words. Someone was singing near by. The melody coiled around his heart and drew him, down the grassy slope, down to the river’s edge he went. The soft grass deadened his footsteps and he saw the singer before she heard him. Leaning against a tree so close to the river that her moonlit figure was reflected in the water, stood one of the captive girls. Bendeguz stood motionless, watching and listening. Her deep sad voice seemed to melt the fierceness around his heart, the restlessness left him, he was at peace. The song came to an end. The girl turned away from the river with a sigh . . . she saw Bendeguz. She made a move as if to run away, then shrank against the tree and faced him defiantly. There was contempt in her eyes and pride in the lift of her head. Bendeguz wanted to say: “Do not be afraid,” but now he could not, for there was no fear in her eyes—just cold, proud contempt. He walked closer, he could have touched her, and still she faced him defiantly. “What is your name?” he asked and his voice was gentle. “Alleeta.” “Alleeta . . .” he repeated slowly. “Alleeta, your eyes are as cold as ice. Do you hate me?” She looked at him for a long time then she turned her head away. “No, not now,” she whispered. “Always I have before, but not now.” She was speaking the language of the Huns, yet it wasn’t the same. To Bendeguz the words she spoke were like her elusive reflection in the water, the same words he knew but subtly different. And suddenly the words of her song rang again in his ears: Lead me westward, White Eagle of the Moon, oh, lead me On silvery rays of the Moon— Westward I long to fly . . . . “Alleeta, where did you learn that song—where did you learn the language of my people?” he asked. She looked at him, surprised. “It is the language of my people and it is a song we all know, the Song of the White Eagle.” “The White Eagle!” exclaimed Bendeguz.

I'm used to the traffic and the way it washes through my mind, swirling with changing rhythms. It is a moving, liquid music, smooth and soothing; a song of haunting sounds and hooting woven from the speed and rushings of the city. The traffic is a song which plays my feelings as though they were a string instrument of distant drum. It erases all silences within me.

You must trust the Great Ones, tah-mah. If you are certain she is the woman of the prophecy, then all will be well. The song cannot come to pass if she dies.” Hunter tucked in his chin to study the girl’s mud-streaked face and found himself wondering how he ever could have thought her ugly. Could a shaft of sunlight be ugly? A sparkle of moonlight upon water? “I’m certain, Warrior. She is the woman. Already, part of the prophecy has come to pass, eh? Her voice has been returned to her.” “And she has stolen your Comanche heart, has she not?” “She has great courage for one so small, but my heart is my own. As it will always be.” Warrior leaned sideways to peer over Hunter’s shoulder at the yellow-hair’s face, his own creasing in a grin. “Yes, there is something about her, is there not? The mud, I think. It does something for her.” Hunter smiled in spite of himself. “She looks like She Who Shakes got ahold of her. Remember when Ki-was, Rascal, let her make his war paint?” Warrior chuckled. “The time she mixed it too thin? The three red stripes on his chin dripped, and he rode into battle looking like a People Eater. Yes, I remember.” Hunter flexed his tense back, letting the sound of Warrior’s laughter soothe him. “She sleeps like a baby, Hunter. That’s a good sign, no? She must be starting to trust you. She’ll begin eating and drinking soon.” “She’s just exhausted and weak from thirst. Too weary to be frightened. Or to give me trouble.

Do you deny that your song says your yellow-hair must come to you? You took me home and taught me how to walk back to you in your footsteps!” Her voice rose, turning shrill. “You gave me a fine horse to ride! Do you deny that?” Confusion welled inside him. “You are angry because I teach you and give you gifts?” At last she wrenched her head around, her tear-filled eyes sparkling with contempt. “Like your medallion? ‘Wear it for always,’ you said. But it wasn’t as a remembrance! It was to mark me, so your filthy friend Santos wouldn’t steal the wrong yellow-hair. You knew how much I love Amy. You struck where I was most vulnerable, knowing I’d do anything to save her. I trusted you. You spoke of songs in our hearts and remembering for always. And I--” Her voice broke and trailed off into a squeak. For a moment he thought she might strike him, so deep went her pain, but then her face crumpled and the fight drained from her. She looked so forsaken, so frightened, that all he wanted was to hold her and soothe away her hurts. “I believed you, Hunter. Do you know how difficult that was for me? After what Comanches did to my parents? I betrayed their memory, trusting you. I turned my back on everything.” Hunter’s heart caught at the bruised, aching intensity he heard in her voice. Two large tears slipped over her bottom lashes and washed onto her cheeks, trailing in silver ribbons to her chin. He ran his hand into her cloud of tangled hair and drew her toward him, ignoring her resistance, pressing her face into the curve of his neck. She lay rigid against him, shaking violently. He dipped his head, the last traces of his anger dying.

When death arrives, the very life inside of you knows its own fate; it writhes and claws with a ferocity that has no equal. Then in a quick moment, there is no more pain and you can hear the sound of death. She travels to you gently, as though water had been suspended in the air in-between. The song of her voice greets you with a messenger's reverence and a diplomat's neutrality so that you might me soothed by her meaning nd calmed by her presence.

Each of us faces a threat as we pursue our craft. Like sirens on the rocks, ego sings a soothing, validating song—which can lead to a wreck. The second we let the ego tell us we have graduated, learning grinds to a halt.

Calvin R. Stapert shows, for example, how the church fathers uniformly opposed most pagan music in both form and content. Clement of Alexandria, for instance, eschewed pagan music, the “old song,” which he described as “licentious, voluptuous, frenzied, frantic, inebriating, titillating, scurrilous, turbulent, immodest, and meretricious.”16 Instead, he argued, the church should set itself apart from the world's music, singing the “new song,” which Clement believed reflects the “melodious order” and “harmonious arrangement” of the universe and is “sober, pure, decorous, modest, temperate, grave, and soothing.”17 Clement wished to “banish [pagan music] far away, and let our songs be hymns to God.… For temperate harmonies are to be admitted.

Lionel Richie is a singer of great repute. His love songs are balms that soothe an ailing heart, caressing it back to life with therapeutic compositions they carry along. His music is soft, warm, and, like an abluent, cleanses whatever smut may have stained the tender frame of a plagued mind. His most important song, SELA, contains a fother of love the whole world should be proud to bear. I listen to it, drumming hard on the skin of selective ballyhoo. ~ Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

Gravel-voiced Rod Stewart is a genius of soul music. As he sings, blades of tussocks bow in reverence to the greatness of this warm-hearted singer, who sings so that the world would listen. His mellow song EVERY BEAT OF MY HEART measures the depth of your heart with the flow of its magical, soothing lyrics written with the tongue of the heart.

When you listen to the music of Phil Collins, heaven and earth enter into a morganatic marriage, with you as a grand witness to this splicing of eternal abodes for the homeward union of heart and soul. His songs, ever so soothing, circulate through your body like blood pumped from a dancing heart.

My love My love stood on the verge of something beautiful, about to happen in life And it has been just the rustling of the leaves from the trees The old song sang the memories of yesterday Nothing can save the day But the cold, night That soothes and mends broken hearts While the birds sleep and the moon shines And the waves come crashing to the shore Like some bad dream on a sweltering night My love longed and my heart panted My mind created the perfect love story My soul longed to belong only to her As the flowers bloom in the spring My heart is still filled with love My soul is full of hope And yet the soft songs of life Twist their words in images It struck my heart as if it were a knife Now life has become one of long gratitude In the endless fields of lavender. And yellow barley Life has broken the very spirit that roamed in the fields of life, like an untamed spirit like the wind, Like the clouds, like the sun, that rises and sets, like the moon that shines so bright and yellow, like a beautiful sleep that resets the body and galvanizes the soul We are just flashes of thoughts and feelings That keeps flowing out of our souls Kenan Hudaverdi 18.10.2017

Her feet shifted underneath her. “I’m not sure what troubles you.” The wolf prowled, though he sat in a great chair. His uneasiness made her skin tight and her heart race. Hakan was a handsome man, very appealing to all of the fairer sex tonight with his black jerkin stretched across broad shoulders. He had shaved for the Glima festival, and his blonde hair, lighter from summer, loosened from the leather tie. “Many thoughts trouble me tonight, but Astrid’s not one of them.” In the dim light of the longhouse, his white teeth gleamed against his tanned face. “Does your head ail you?” She clasped her hands together, comfortable with the role of nurturing thrall. “Nay, but ‘twould please me if you sat close to me and played your harp.” “Music would be pleasant.” Skittish and studying him under the veil of her lashes, Helena retrieved her harp. She sat cross-legged on a pelt near his chair. ‘Twas easy to strum a soothing song and lose herself in the delicate notes her fingers plucked. But when the last note faded, the restless wolf stirred on his throne, unpacified. “Why did you play that game with Astrid? Letting her think more goes on between us?” Ice-blue eyes pinned her, yet, ‘twas his voice, dangerous and soft, that did things to her. “I…I don’t know.” Her own voice faltered as warmth flushed her skin. Glowing embers molded his face with dim light. Hakan leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees. His sinewy hand plucked the harp from her, placing it on the ground. “Why?” Hakan’s fingertips tilted her chin.

I suppose you could have learned to kick game from “Bonita Applebum”—meager, mealymouthed, soothing “Bonita Applebum” for your meager, mealymouthed, soothing game. Good luck, guy. I’ll take “Around the Way Girl” any day, and twice on days my hair looks good.

There was only Lora and the ocean’s song. She closed her eyes, moving forward to bathe her feet in the colorful sea foam, which washed over the sand as it drifted ashore. Cool, soothing water splashed her, soaking the ankles of her jeans. The hypnotic music completely consumed Lora, dominating her mind, until it could focus on nothing else. The chill of the wind against her pale skin felt so freeing. Why couldn’t every day be like this? Music dwelled within her nature, as a part of her soul. She wasn’t meant to spend her days in a small classroom filled with students. Each day should be filled with singing and music. Her clan had no appreciation of their roots, however. They didn’t embrace who they really were. If they discovered she sang with the ocean this morning, they would punish her. But one day, she promised herself, she would be free of their restraints. Ignoring the nagging part of her mind which feared discovery, Lora finally joined the ocean’s song. A hum escaped her, then another, until her throat reverberated with the low melody of the ocean. Lora couldn’t help herself. She felt compelled to sing along.

mine or Billy’s?” Slowly turning the pages of the old album, they poured over grainy gray pictures and reminisced about long-ago Christmases, birthdays, and vacations they’d taken on the shores of Lake Michigan. Margie found the activity soothing, and she said, “Wade loved his grandpa’s cabin. He was always relaxed there. It was where he wrote some of his best love songs.” Barbara said, “I remember falling asleep in

Arin was in the still room, trying to soothe the anxiety of a woman who was saying that she had just preserved the jams, and must all of them be used for the banquet, every last one? She didn’t think the Dacrans appreciated ilea fruit. Why serve something they wouldn’t love as much as the Herrani did? It would be best, surely, to keep at least those jars for winter. Trying to explain the politics of such lavish consumption tangled Arin up in frustrated half sentences, because it didn’t make much sense to him, either, to consume every edible thing in one night. And then he heard Roshar’s accented voice in Herrani drifting down the hall from the ktichens. “…you don’t understand. The piece of meat must be the finest, cut from the loin, seasoned with this spice, not that one…” Arin excused himself, told the woman he’d discuss jams later, and followed the prince’s voice. “…and it must be well roasted on the outside, almost charred, yet bloody inside. Bright pink. Listen. This is crucial. If anything goes wrong, the banquet will be ruined.” Arin entered the main kitchen to find the prince haranguing the head cook, who slid a half-lidded look of annoyed sufferance at Arin. “There you are.” Roshar beamed. “I need your help, Arin.” “For the preparation of meat?” “It’s very important. You must impress this importance upon your cook here. The fate of political relations between my country and yours hangs in the balance.” “Because of meat.” “It’s for his tiger,” said the cook. Arin palmed his face, eyes squeezed shut. “Your tiger.” “He’s very particular,” said Roshar. “You can’t bring the tiger to the banquet.” “Little Arin has missed me. I will not be parted from him.” “Would you consider changing his name?” “No.” “What if I begged?” “Not a chance.” “Roshar, the tiger has grown.” “And what a sweet big boy he is.” “You can’t bring him into a dining hall filled with hundreds of people.” “He’ll behave. He has the mien and manners of a prince.” “Oh, like you?” “I resent your tone.” “I’m not sure you can control him.” “Has he ever been aught but the gentlest of creatures? Would you deny your namesake the chance to bear witness to our victorious celebration? And, of course, to the vision of you and Kestrel: side by side, Herrani and Valorian, a love for the ages. The stuff of songs, Arin! How you’ll get married, and make babies--” “Gods, Roshar, shut up.

He'd unbuttoned his shirt so the night breeze would soothe him; his body always ran too hot. The blood. Too hot. The large, gold crucifix on his neck, dangling to his thick chest hairs, caught there, and winked in the candlelight. His childhood prayers. For food. Warmth. His beloved mother. That the cruelty of his father. Stop. No more. Beatings. He never. Stopped. Beating her. Mama. [...] Pompeii remembered - like tuning into a clear TV channel - his mother's gentle face. Her fingertips on his boy's face, calming him to sleep. The sound of his father's drunken entrance, when she would hold her breath, stop stroking his boy face.

so the shoes of their mules made only the softest sound on the rock. The quiet soothed her, and the gentle rocking

A song says something to us that we can’t hear in any other way. There is a kind of magic to it. Music does not simply soothe the savage breast, it reaches to our better nature, wouldn’t we all agree?

Won’t you say a toast to me in your mind once more? To the days when wine and posies filled our tables and our ways When the gladness flowed to sooth away the fears that made us poor When we took and gave without a thought to even up the score, Won’t you smile for me and toast once again?

Gasping desperately, she clenched her hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking deep. His lips firmed, he suckled gently- Patience felt the earth quake. The heat of his mouth shocked her- the wet sweep of his tongue scalded her. She gave a strangled cry. That sound, keenly feminine, acutely evocative, caught and focused Vane's attention. Focused every hunter's instinct. Desire heightened, need escalated. His demons turned frenzied- her siren's song lured them on. Urged him on. Compulsion swelled- tense, turbulent, powerful. Desire seethed hotly. He drew a ragged breath- And remembered- all he'd nearly forgotten, all her wild responses had driven from his mind. This was one seduction he had to, need to, manage perfectly- this time, there was meaning beyond the act. Seducing Patience Debbington was too important to rush- conquering her senses, her body, was only the first step. He didn't want her just once- he wanted her for a lifetime. Dragging in a shuddering breath, Vane caught hold of his reins and hauled his impulses up short. Something in him wailed with frustration. He shut his mind to the relentless pounding of his arousal. And set himself to soothe hers. He knew how. There were planes of warm desire on which women could float, neither driven, nor quiescent, but simply buoyed on a sea of pleasure. With hands and lips, mouth and tongue, he soothed her fever flesh, took the sting from her aches, the edge from her passion, and eased her into that pleasured sea. Patience was beyond understanding- all she knew was the peace, the calm, the profound pleasure that welled and washed through her. Content, she flowed with the tide, letting her senses stretch. The whirling that had disoriented her slowed; her mind steadied. Full consciousness, when it came, was no shock; the continuing touch of Vane's hands, the artful caress of his lips, his tongue, were familiar- no threat.

After three years of not drinking, I have to do things like listen to a song on repeat all alone for an hour to self soothe. I feel like a child.

I put my headphones on. I let my favourite songs wrap around me like old friends. The music acts as a soothing balm after a lot of stimulation.

God is your warrior and protector, giving you refuge and fighting for you. He is also a gentle shepherd whose presence never leaves, holding you tenderly when you’re hurting, soothing your fears and calming you with His love. He sings over you, like a mother sings over her child. He loves you with a compassion and tenderness that is unmatched. Let His love calm your fears today. You are so very loved. For the LORD your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

I return myself to the safety of my bedroom and throw myself into a loop of my own making: read a book I've already read, watch a TV show I've seen dozens of times, wear my Wednesday pajamas and eat my Wednesday dinner. I listen to a favorite song on repeat, dozens of times; bury myself in familiarity like a small, hurt animal in its den, turning in tiny circles until it can comfortably settle. I make the same small sounds to myself, over and over again. I curl up in a ball on my bed, rocking gently, losing myself in the comfort of a pattern. I soothe myself with repetition until I feel calm.

The greatest boon to mankind that history will ever know can be brotherly love,” he was saying. “Brotherhood! It can be more nutritious than bread. More warming than wine. More soothing than song. More satisfying than sex. More beneficial than science. More curing than medicine.” The metaphors might have been mixed and the delivery stilted, for Marcus was not highly educated. But no one could doubt the sincerity in his voice. The sincerity was so pure it was heart-breaking. Everyone within earshot was touched by his sincerity. “Man’s love for man. Let me tell you, it is like all religions put together, like all the gods embracing. It is the greatest.…” No one doubted him. The intensity of his emotion left no room for doubt. But one elderly black man, equally serious, standing on the opposite side of the street, expressed his concern and that of others. “I believe you, son. But how you gonna get it to work?” “We’re going to march!” Marcus declared in a ringing voice. Whether that answered the old man’s question or not was never known.

THE GIFT I GIVE MYSELF Our voices turn so easily into too much noise. The gift I give myself is a day of silence so that I might retrieve what has been lost in the clamor— of cars, the frenzy, the gossip— what we mistake for connection. In silence, I watch the leaves, each crimson and tangerine hue more brilliant than the next on its slow descent— as if a message is there for the reading. In silence, I hear the wind crackling its own stormy song. In silence, I notice a branch bending in the wind, as if to lean closer, to whisper in my ear its timeless secrets. —jane butkin wagner

[Earlier in the novel, Anodos meets a girl with the lightness of a child, carrying her prized possession - a precious globe that made music when touched. As the Shadow took over him, he reached out and broke her globe. This excerpt happens toward the end of the novel]: Hardly knowing what I did, I opened the door. Why had I not done so before? I do not know. At first I could see no one; but when I had forced myself past the tree which grew across the entrance, I saw, seated on the ground, and leaning against the tree, with her back to my prison, a beautiful woman. Her countenance seemed known to me, and yet unknown. She looked at me and smiled, when I made my appearance. “Ah! were you the prisoner there? I am very glad I have wiled you out.” “Do you know me then?” “Do you not know me? But you hurt me, and that, I suppose, makes it easy for a man to forget. You broke my globe. Yet I thank you. Perhaps I owe you many thanks for breaking it. I took the pieces, all black, and wet with crying over them, to the Fairy Queen. There was no music and no light in them now. But she took them from me, and laid them aside; and made me go to sleep in a great hall of white, with black pillars, and many red curtains. When I woke in the morning, I went to her, hoping to have my globe again, whole and sound; but she sent me away without it, and I have not seen it since. Nor do I care for it now. I have something so much better. I do not need the globe to play to me; for I can sing. I could not sing at all before. Now I go about everywhere through Fairy Land, singing till my heart is like to break, just like my globe, for very joy at my own songs. And wherever I go, my songs do good, and deliver people. And now I have delivered you, and I am so happy.” She ceased, and the tears came into her eyes. All this time, I had been gazing at her; and now fully recognised the face of the child, glorified in the countenance of the woman. I was ashamed and humbled before her; but a great weight was lifted from my thoughts. I knelt before her, and thanked her, and begged her to forgive me. “Rise, rise,” she said; “I have nothing to forgive; I thank you. But now I must be gone, for I do not know how many may be waiting for me, here and there, through the dark forests; and they cannot come out till I come.” She rose, and with a smile and a farewell, turned and left me. I dared not ask her to stay; in fact, I could hardly speak to her. Between her and me, there was a great gulf. She was uplifted, by sorrow and well-doing, into a region I could hardly hope ever to enter. I watched her departure, as one watches a sunset. She went like a radiance through the dark wood, which was henceforth bright to me, from simply knowing that such a creature was in it. She was bearing the sun to the unsunned spots. The light and the music of her broken globe were now in her heart and her brain. As she went, she sang; and I caught these few words of her song; and the tones seemed to linger and wind about the trees after she had disappeared: Thou goest thine, and I go mine– Many ways we wend; Many days, and many ways, Ending in one end. Many a wrong, and its curing song; Many a road, and many an inn; Room to roam, but only one home For all the world to win. And so she vanished. With a sad heart, soothed by humility, and the knowledge of her peace and gladness, I bethought me what now I should do.

Feeling wholly and completely understood by people who don't know you personally is a very powerful thing. Oftentimes through songs, books, and movies, we are reminded that our feelings are universal and that we're not alone in this life. Everyone has their own thing that speaks down to the depths of their soul, soothes them, and picks up their broken pieces on bad days. It's amazing to feel so connected from such a distance.

In melodies of longing, my heart does play, A saxophonist's soul, in love's ballet. Our meetings planned, yet fate intervenes, A cosmic dance, behind the scenes. His saxophone whispers in the midnight air, Each note a promise, a love affair. Yet life's interruptions, a relentless rhyme, But through the strains, love stands the test of time. In dreams, I see his star ascending high, Prosperity blooms beneath the sky. His saxophone weaves dreams untold, A symphony of success, a story to unfold. I yearn for his pain to gently sway, In the cadence of a brighter day. For within my love, a healing balm, To soothe his soul, bring tranquil calm. As dreams align, and stars align, May his saxophone play a melody divine. In the crescendo of life, may joy take flight, And love's song serenade the darkest night.

Get a recordable button with at least thirty seconds of recordable space (you can purchase inexpensive ones online). Find a time when you’re alone and calm. Then, in your regulated, soothing voice, record a message for your child about bedtime. It might be a verse from a bedtime song, it might be the mantra your child uses, it might be a message about seeing you in the morning—whatever your child would find soothing in your absence. Integrate this button in the sleep routine; your child might press the button once to hear your message while you’re in the room, once while you walk out, twice when you’re outside the door. Or you can even strike a “bargain”: “Let’s work on using the comfort button—I want to hear you listen to four full rounds before you call for me. I’ll know you’re using it because I’ll be waiting outside your door. If things still feel bad, call for me and I’ll come in and rub your back and tell you you’re safe and we’ll try it all again.