“Timotheus, to his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.”

“Silence was not the absence of sound but was itself a sound that could be loud or soft, soothing or disturbing, complex or simple.”

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.”

“Ev'en Thou my breast with such blest rage inspire,
As mov'd the tuneful strings of Davids Lyre”

“Thy soft-breathed hopes with magic might
Have chased from my soul the shades of night”

“And His that gentle voice we hear,
Soft as the breath of even.”

“He went; his piping took a troubled sound
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
He could not wait their passing, he is dead!”

“Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.”

“If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.”

“Pride swells the brain. Vanity carries with it smoke, minds. Hatred tightens the heart. Love warms the lungs. Admiration stops the heart. We breathe through desire. We want to pump up all that delights, and dilates. Sadness is inaction. The love that comes from the blood, the love that comes from the soul.”