Woods Lyrics Quotes

I’m sorry you couldn’t find me. I have been in the woods. I put myself there because I couldn’t be good. I have been running with foxes and running with crows and I have found myself a home where no one goes.

I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me.

The full moon, well risen in a cloudless eastern sky, covered the high solitude with its light. We are not conscious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us simply the natural condition of the earth and air. When we think of the downs, we think of the downs in daylight, as with think of a rabbit with its fur on. Stubbs may have envisaged the skeleton inside the horse, but most of us do not: and we do not usually envisage the downs without daylight, even though the light is not a part of the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us, but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight and to that extent it us utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that event the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity---so much lower than that of daylight---makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.

Drink up my honey eyes, Kiss them shut every night, And be my 'one' all my life.

As the wind, wandering over the sea, takes from each wave an invisible portion, and brings to those on shore the ethereal essence of ocean, so the air lingering among the woods and hedges—green waves and billows—became full of fine atoms of summer.

Bluegrass lyrics are almost always about death, loss, and unrequited love, but the music – the noise we make with out banjos and our fiddles – is joyful. The dead are always with us, even after their ghosts move on, but it's the life pulsing through our veins that makes the music.

ISCARIOT" "A box of doves I placed beside your chest Liar A stork of silk With rubies in it's nest Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. A mare of wood Elder, elm and oak Liar Will keep you fair If you jest me no joke Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. I'm old and bruised But my fate is that of youth Liar Trickster you Be a grisly dragon's tooth Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. You gashed the heart of my heart Like a Portuguese Witch, I'd planned for you this land But you devoured my hand.

I’m passing the bar Where you first got in my car I’m not ashamed to admit That it’s you I won’t forget I saved your cigarettes and Bad habits I regret But the hours flew by like clouds Whenever I had you around Parachute lover Take me away From the plane that went crashing And the earth that’s in flames Saving you is saving me High above the redwood trees But down below I see shadows And parachute debris We're drifting like children Along for the ride Each time we find love Another parachute arrives Our madness will burn As bright as the sun And I’ll keep finding lovers But you were the one

For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.

I’m sorry if you couldn’t find me I have been in the woods. I put myself there because I couldn’t be good. I have been running with foxes and hunting with crows. And I have found myself a home where no body goes.

Ask yourself Will i burn in Hell? Then write it down and cast it in the well There they are The mob it cries for blood To twist the tale Into fore wood Fan the flames With a little lie Then turn your cheek Until the fire dies The skin it peels Like the truth, away What it was I will never say...

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his moods  Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,  At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,  Danced like a wither'd leaf before the Hall.  And toward him from the Hall, with harp in hand,  And from the crown thereof a carcanet  Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize  Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,  Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?

Headphones opened up a world of sonic colors, a palette of nuances and details that went far beyond the chords and melody, the lyrics, or a particular singer’s voice. The swampy Deep South ambience of “Green River” by Creedence, or the pastoral, open-space beauty of the Beatles’ “Mother Nature’s Son”; the oboes in Beethoven’s Sixth (conducted by Karajan), faint and drenched in the atmosphere of a large wood-and-stone church; the sound was an enveloping experience.

The name of the song is "All the boys got to love me, that's all."...It was the most unusual blues you ever heard. It was so sad. It's about a man who takes a girl to a dance. The girl starts flirting with another man. He doesn't start a fight, but takes her home and sings this song...The lyrics are full of regret, he tells her he is sorry he met her, among other things, and finishes by saying he is going to take her into the woods and shoot her. He kills her but he still loves her and he tells the undertaker to be very careful with his beautiful baby.

All the colours in the rainbow don't compare, With one look in your impossible eyes, And I walked into the trap with my eyes wide shut, But I never knew what it would be like. All the plans were made, In the wooded glade, Where your body was split wide open, And I count to ten, As the race begins, Round your hairpin bends. Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Without you to hold me. I can't count the times I forgot my lines, And you pretended that you didn't know, Let me take you through each stage of the male mistake, And we'll adopt our natural roles. And I need you more, Than you need to be needed, So I sign my will one stab at a time, And I count to ten, As the race begins, Round your hairpin bends. Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Without you to hold me. Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Sometimes I feel I'll float away, Without you to hold me. Away, away, away, away ".

I must be a writer of words, and nothing else. … I do not like writing about words, because then I often use bad and wrong and stale and woolly words. What I like to do is to treat words as a craftsman does his wood or stone or what-have-you, to hew, carve, mould, coil, polish and plane them into patterns, sequences, sculptures, fugues of sound expressing some lyrical impulse, some spiritual doubt or conviction, some dimly-realised truth I must try to reach and realise. … I am a painstaking, conscientious, involved and devious craftsman in words, however unsuccessful the result so often appears, and to whatever wrong uses I may apply my technical paraphernalia, I use everything and anything to make my poems work and move them in the directions I want to… … I, myself do not read poetry for anything but pleasure. I read only the poems I like. This means, of course, that I have to read a lot of poems I don't before I find the ones I do, but, when I do find the ones I do, then all I can say is, 'Here they are', and read them to myself for pleasure. Read the poems you like reading. Don't bother whether they're 'important', or if they'll live. What does it matter what poetry is, after all? If you want a definition of poetry, say: 'Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing', and let it go at that. All that matters about poetry is the enjoyment of it, however tragic it may be. All that matters is the eternal movement behind it, the vast undercurrents of human grief, folly, pretension, exaltation, or ignorance, however unlofty the intention of the poem. You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it technically tick, and say to yourself, when the works are laid out before you, the vowels, the consonants, the rhymes or rhythms, 'Yes, this is it. This is why the poems moves me so. It is because of the craftsmanship.' But you're back again where you began. You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps in the works of the poem so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

On Being Human" Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence Behold the Forms of nature. They discern Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities Which mortals lack or indirectly learn. Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying, Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear, High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal Huge Principles appear. The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap; But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance Of sun from shadow where the trees begin, The blessed cool at every pore caressing us -An angel has no skin. They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it Drink the whole summer down into the breast. The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest. The tremor on the rippled pool of memory That from each smell in widening circles goes, The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it? An angel has no nose. The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes On death, and why, they utterly know; but not The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries. The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves, Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges. —An angel has no nerves. Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see; Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be. Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior, This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares With living men some secrets in a privacy Forever ours, not theirs.

the soft pleading magic The green wood heard of old.

The songs transported her backwards in time, to when she first wrote them. As each one melted into the next, as her voice sang lyrics and melodies from her past, memories burst like colors across a blank canvas. Because inside each and every one of these songs---songs she'd written before she ever left Edgewood---memories were hidden. Emeline choked on them. Hot tears burned in her eyes as she tapped the next file, and the next, racing through songs and, with them, memories that had been stolen from her. Images of a younger Sable flashed before her eyes, interwoven with a younger Rooke. And someone else. Hawthorne. He was everywhere, with his dark hair and strange eyes. Her songs were so full of him, Emeline felt like she was drowning in him. Hawthorne, sitting next to the fire, reading a book. Hawthorne, shucking off his shirt and diving into a moonlit pond. Hawthorne, climbing in through her bedroom window. Kissing her in the dark. She'd embedded him inside her music. Because songs were never just songs for Emeline. They were capsules, each one containing a moment trapped inside it. As the next one started to play through her headphones, an image of a tree rose up in her mind. Emeline could see its thirsty roots; the twisting, twirling gray-brown bark; the gnarly branches stretching towards the sky. A silent sentinel, standing guard at the edge of the woods. Her tree.

XVIII The courtyard of her house is wide And cool and still when day departs. Only the rustle of leaves is there   And running water. And then her mouth, more delicate 5 Than the frail wood-anemone, Brushes my cheek, and deeper grow   The purple shadows.

Years later, when I heard friends speak sentimentally and lyrically about their place of birth, of how they’d been shaped by Northumberland or Glasgow, the Lakes or the Wirral, I’d find myself envying even the most hackneyed, stereotyped expressions of ‘belonging’. We had no sense of identity, no authentic accent, just a kind of cockney learnt from TV, applied over a slight country burr. I didn’t hate our town, but it was hard to feel lyrical or sentimental about the reservoir, the precinct, the scrappy woods where porn yellowed beneath the brambles.

Tonally, the jagged syntax of ‘Inch-thick’, the Ovidian lyricism of ‘O Proserpina’ and Autolycus’s bawdy swagger show Shakespeare at his widest-ranging. This is total mastery. Nobody had taken the English language further, and nobody has done so since.

Lyric To The Isles Charles Sangster Here the spirit of Beauty keepeth Jubilee for evermore; Here the voice of Gladness leapeth, Echoing from shore to shore. O'er the hidden watery valley, O'er each buried wood and glade, Dances our delighted galley, Through the sunlight and the shade; Dances o'er the granite cells, Where the soul of Beauty dwells; Here the flowers are ever springing, While the summer breezes blow; Here the Hours are ever clinging, Loitering before they go; Playing round each beauteous islet, Loath to leave the sunny shore, Where, upon her couch of violet, Beauty sits for evermore; Sits and smiles by day and night, Hand in hand with pure Delight. Here the spirit of Beauty dwelleth In each palpitating tree, In each amber wave that welleth From its home beneath the sea; In the moss upon the granite In each calm, secluded bay, With the zephyr trains that fan it With their sweet breaths all the day– On the waters, on the shore, Beauty dwelleth evermore!

Lyric To The Isles Here the spirit of Beauty keepeth Jubilee for evermore; Here the voice of Gladness leapeth, Echoing from shore to shore. O'er the hidden watery valley, O'er each buried wood and glade, Dances our delighted galley, Through the sunlight and the shade; Dances o'er the granite cells, Where the soul of Beauty dwells; Here the flowers are ever springing, While the summer breezes blow; Here the Hours are ever clinging, Loitering before they go; Playing round each beauteous islet, Loath to leave the sunny shore, Where, upon her couch of violet, Beauty sits for evermore; Sits and smiles by day and night, Hand in hand with pure Delight. Here the spirit of Beauty dwelleth In each palpitating tree, In each amber wave that welleth From its home beneath the sea; In the moss upon the granite In each calm, secluded bay, With the zephyr trains that fan it With their sweet breaths all the day– On the waters, on the shore, Beauty dwelleth evermore!

I arched my back. Screamed. “We need to flip her over,” Malum barked, and multiple hands reached down to turn me over. “I’m sorry for everything,” he whispered as he turned me, and I threw up from the jostling. John pressed a cloth to my face to wipe up the sickness, but midwipe, he halted. Everyone ceased moving at once, and the room fell creepily quiet. No one breathed. The sudden tension was a tangible weight. Orion whispered something to Scorpius. “Why,” Malum said roughly. “The fuck.” His teeth clashed together. “Is ‘WHORE’ carved into your back?” Crack. I opened my mouth and whispered my darkest secret aloud, “Mother did it. The night before I killed her.” I sobbed and convulsed. Arched my back and jackknifed my legs. “What!?” Scorpius bellowed. I spat out between gasps of pain because apparently, I was feeling very chatty. “She used to light me on fire. For fun. Just like you, Malum.” In my peripheral vision, the wingback chair burst into flames. “Aran,” John whispered brokenly. Someone’s fists slammed against the wall. Malum made a broken noise, and he stalked over to the bathroom door, ripped it off the hinges, then cracked the flaming wood over his knee. Orion fell to his knees beside me. He screamed, and the sound was so high-pitched and lyrical that a headache throbbed in my temples. The demons backed away from me with horror. John draped himself across my back like he was hugging me. His large body trembled, and warm tears dripped across my skin. More pain exploded across my back, and I couldn’t swallow the whimper that burst from my lips. I bit down on my lip to hold in another scream. “We need to help her,” Scorpius growled. “Orion, bring the first aid kit. Now!” There was a loud sizzling. Scarlet flames turned purple, and the bathroom door disappeared into a pile of ashes. My teammates fell to their knees around me. Hands held me down. Fingers pulled bloody glass shards from my back. A needle and thread were pulled frantically through my wounds. Crack.

The singing is mesmerising, until I find the right page in the right booklet and discover that the lyrics are all about denouncing evil this and God’s enemies that. The subtlety of the lilting chant belies the blunt instrument of the words themselves.

YOUNG NED OF THE HILL" "Have you ever walked the lonesome hills and heard the curlews cry? Or seen the raven black as night upon a windswept sky? To walk the purple heather and hear the westwind cry To know that's where the rapparee must die. Since Cromwell pushed us westward to live our lowly lives There's some of us have deemed to fight from Tipperary mountains high Noble men with wills of iron who are not afraid to die Who'll fight with gaelic honour held on high. A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell , you who raped our Motherland I hope you're rotting down in hell for the horrors that you sent To our misfortunate forefathers whom you robbed of their birthright "To hell or Connaught" may you burn in hell tonight. Of one such man I'd like to speak a rapparee by name and deed His family dispossessed and slaughtered they put a price upon his head His name is known in song and story his deeds are legends still And murdered for blood money was young Ned of the hill. A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell, you who raped our Motherland I hope you're rotting down in hell for the horrors that you sent To our misfortunate forefathers whom you robbed of their birthright "To hell or Connaught" may you burn in hell tonight. You have robbed our homes and fortunes, even drove us from our land You tried to break our spirit but you'll never understand The love of dear old Ireland that will forge an iron will As long as there are gallant men like young Ned of the hill.

What if someone mentions a movie or television show but no one can remember the name of the lead actor? Or song lyrics but not the title? What will we do? Sit in the frustration of not knowing for seven days?

Mountain Man" "The first snow comes from the mountains And the cold consumes my soul Chop the last wood of the season To keep my bones and spirit warm I hear dogs in the distance barking Hunting under the midnight moon The winter wind blows through the doorway Bringin' in this familiar friend In the faint light of a lantern He persists to watch my shadow fade He won't dry the lonely tears I'm crying He's not here for a warm embrace You've gotta listen deep and listen closely Wise words won't fall like the rain When he'll be gone come morning I've to carry on its another day I'm a man of the mountain I'm a man all by myself I'm a man of the mountain A Mountain man is what I am

He would buy me a pair of headphones if I would promise to use them when he was home. Those headphones forever changed the way I listened to music. The new artists that I was listening to were all exploring stereo mixing for the first time. Because the speakers that came with my hundred-dollar all-in-one stereo system weren’t very good, I had never before heard the depth that I could hear in the headphones—the placement of instruments both in the left-right field and in the front-back (reverberant) space. To me, records were no longer just about the songs anymore, but about the sound. Headphones opened up a world of sonic colors, a palette of nuances and details that went far beyond the chords and melody, the lyrics, or a particular singer’s voice. The swampy Deep South ambience of “Green River” by Creedence, or the pastoral, open-space beauty of the Beatles’ “Mother Nature’s Son”; the oboes in Beethoven’s Sixth (conducted by Karajan), faint and drenched in the atmosphere of a large wood-and-stone church; the sound was an enveloping experience. Headphones also made the music more personal for me; it was suddenly coming from inside my head, not out there in the world. This personal connection is ultimately what drove me to become a recording engineer and producer. Many years later, Paul Simon told me that the sound is always what he was after too.

He’s so familiar to me now that I feel myself having to concentrate to truly see him. As if he was a mural passed every morning on the way out the door or the lyrics to a favorite song I’ve sung along to a million times. Beautiful. Special, even. But known.