Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Murmurous. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Murmurous Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Pablo Neruda,Deborah Levy,Robin Hobb,Patrick Mcgrath,Patrick Rothfuss for you to enjoy and share.
And the heart sounds like a sour conch,
calls, oh sea, oh lament, oh molten panic,
scattered in the unlucky and disheveled waves:
the sea reports sonorously
on its languid shadows, its green poppies.
In the new quiet I heard the sea as if my ears were laid against the ocean floor. I could hear everything. The rumbling earthquake of a ship and spider crabs moving between weeds.
Silent," the carved wizardwood on his wrist breathed. "Silent as a blinded ship, floating hull-up in the sea. Silent as a scream underwater.
A tissue of small sounds filled the room, a bird, a clock, a voice from another garden. What we call silence.
It was closer to the sound a heavy snowfall makes, a muffled hush that almost makes less noise than no noise at all. Felurian
In every country is a word which attempts the sound of cats, to match an inisolable portrait in the clouds to a din in the air. But the constant noise is not an omen of music to come.
All the live murmur of a summer's day.
There was just a beautiful, unearthly silence. He thought of the wood and the bluebells, the owl and the fox, a Hornby train trundling around his bedroom floor, the smell of a cake baking in the oven. The skylark ascending on his thread of song. F-Fox
When speech comes from a quiet heart, it has the strength of the orchid, and the fragrance of rock.
The sound came again. There was a whistle to it, and a moan. It was almost a hiss, and it could've been a strangled gasp. Above all, it was quiet, and it seemed to have no source.
It whispered.
For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.
Quiet in the way that a battlefield is sometimes quiet,
Dead calm, then a murmur, a name, a murmured name, in doubt, in fear, in love, in fear, in doubt, wind of winter in the black boughs, cold calm sea whitening whispering to the shore, stealing, hastening, swelling, passing, dying, from naught come, to naught gone
dull - she did not, with equal longing, wish to be a part of the whispering spinster chorus at the edge of other, more interesting lives. She
I can no longer stay quiet in this world, I have a voice and I feel it reverberate off my internal walls, making its slow climb upward until its melody can be heard all around.
The silences here are retreats of sound, like the retreat of the surf before a tidal wave: sound draining away, down slopes of acoustic passage, to gather, someplace else, to a great surge of noise.
Silences, as every observer knows, have strange characteristics all their own - passionate silences, and hateful silences, and silences full of friendly, purring content.
Silence, beautiful voice.
Humbledrum farted mournfully, three distinct notes.
One disagreeable result of whispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence, haunted by the ghosts of sound - strange cracks and tickings, the rustling of garments that have no substance in them, and the tread of dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the winter snow.
And they were quiet but their blood and nerves and butterflies were not - they were rampantly alive, rushing and thrumming in a wild and perfect melody, matched note for note.
The stream sings a subdued music, a scarcely audible lilt, faint and fluid syllables not quite said. It slips away into its future, where it already is, and flows steadily forth from up the canyon, a fountain of rumors from regions known to it and not to me.
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
Silence is a sounding thing, To one who listens hungrily
The silence sings. It is musical. I remember a night when it was audible. I heard the unspeakable.
It was a beautiful voice. He wanted to reply to it. But he couldn't work out how to. It was very dark. 'Cheradenine?' A very patient voice. Concerned, somehow, but a hopeful voice; a cheerful, even loving voice. He tried to remember his mother. 'Cheradenine?' the voice said again.
Echo waits with art and care And will the faults of song repair.
Like a dart the present glances,
Silent stands the past sublime.
Thundering in my head; the sound of silence overwhelms.
A soft hushing sound, like fingernails scratching down an endless sheet of paper.
Whispering can be a rest from a noisy world of words.
Such were garrulous and noisy eras, which no longer yield any sound, but the Grecian or silent and melodious era is ever soundingand resounding in the ears of men.
Words are the fallen ruins of silent majesty.
My love for Sherry had been a shout across the silent night. Standing back here, in this town with her, was like being in a canyon. That shout became an echo, and that love sounded like a deafening never-ending roar.
The mute grain turns to love songs when swallowed by the nightingale.
A voice that had traversed the centuries, so heavy it broke what it touched, so heavy I feared it would ring in me with eternal resonance, a voice rusty with the sound of curses and the hoarse cries that issue from the delta in the last paroxysm of orgasm.
The scarcely audible whisper of soft airs through the trees morning and evening, rain drops falling gently, and the murmur of drowsy surges far below, alone break the stillness.
The voices were muffled; the din of a
Alert. Aware. Dreams and memories slip away. Thoughts tumble. Tangled. Confused. Sounds from my mouth are primal. What I want to say, what I need to say stays locked inside.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
In every sound, the hidden silence sleeps.
the whisper of space being compressed.
My heart is mute--my heart is mute
Echo to echo I try to hear. From one echo to another I ransack my scream to find your name.
Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises ...
The confused murmur of his nights began to rise, expected but not familiar
The voice is deep and soft, not a sound so much as a feeling. It is storm and wind and leaves twisting in the night. It is roots sucking deep at the earth, and the pale, sightless creatures that live below the ground. But there's something wrong with this voice, something diseased at its core.
Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.
A vile beastly rottenheaded foolbegotten brazenthroated pernicous piggish screaming, tearing, roaring, perplexing, splitmecrackle crashmecriggle insane ass of a woman is practising howling below-stairs with a brute of a singingmaster so horribly, that my head is nearly off.
There was no near sound - no steam-engine at work with beat and pant - no click of machinery, or mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away, the ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring.
Sweet bird, that shun the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy!
player hummed for a second, then sweet sad acoustic guitar filled the air, arpeggiated cascades that transformed the cramped space of the room. The voice that followed was smoky and haunting, filled with loss:
drown out the noise of time, is transformed into the whisper of history. This
Quiet, by its nature, slips away unnoticed. But once it's gone, we notice.
Nothing can stop the words so well as the mute alphabet of knit and purl. The curl of your cupped hand scoops up long drinks of calm. The rhythm you find is from down inside, rocking cradle, heartbeat, ocean. Waves on a rockless shore.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart
of form.
The silence rings - it is musical & thrills me. A night in which the silence was audible - I hear the unspeakable.
Our murmuring is the devil's music.
Sometimes silence become the most excruciating sound; sometimes the mind becomes a musical symphony of clouded thoughts, questions and clarifications but the vocals fail to present the sound of conversation.
My thoughts, imprisoned in my secret woes, with flamy breaths do issue oft in sound.
Silence has a sound
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)
Silence is so freaking loud
The sounds of silence are a dim recollection now, like mystery, privacy and paying attention to one thing - or one person - at a time.
Silence is the sound of our soul
Straightway like a bell
Came low and clear
The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas
Her voice was husky, vibrating, slightly flat, coming in just under each note like a saucer under a cup.
Soundless echoes - no voice,
Sadness doth keep thee at bay,
Stagnation rises as ebb & flow,
Nothing alters,
Unless you choose to break away.
A certain red cardinal sounded like a little bottle being filled up, up, up with some clear liquid.
impinged on the normal nightly Holcomb noises - on the keening hysteria of coyotes, the dry scrape of scuttling tumbleweed, the racing, receding wail of locomotive
It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.
Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?
Suddenly it was terribly quiet, as if the earth itself were too stunned to breathe. I know this sound; silence is part of music. But just because something is silent doesn't mean you aren't hearing it. Frankie
This muck heaves and palpitates. It is multi-directional and has a mayor.
There is a word SILENT, which means khaamush, it has the exact same letters as the word LISTEN. So open your ears and tell me, what can you hear?
Hushed as midnight silence.
When I breathe,
This sound in my chest
Lonelier than the winter wind
Deep in my heart subsides the infrequent word, And there dies slowly throbbing like a wounded bird.
Everything was so desperately noisy in the dark when he was alone. Each time he moved, there was the sound of a crease. He felt like a man in a paper suit.
I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still.
I frequently hear music in the heart of noise.
It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild and menacing.
Avarice, the sphincter of the heart.
The wood echoed to the hoarse ringing of other saws; somewhere, very far away, a nightingale was trying out its voice, and at longer intervals a blackbird whistled as if blowing dust out of a flute. Even the engine steam rose into the sky warbling like milk boiling up on a nursery alchohol stove.
A room full of words that are nearly the truth but not quite, each note fluttering off the steam of its rose like a broken butterfly wing.
Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were conspicuous in the hush.
It was a silence that heard itself, awful and beautiful.
Silence: the motor drive of nothingness underneath all rhythm - threatened to last forever, a spell of sleep cast over the entire kingdom of listeners.
Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmur of tender lullabies!
This mournful and restless sound was a fit accompaniment to my meditations.
Noise is the most impertinent of all forms of interruption. It is not only an interruption, but also a disruption of thought.
There's an uncomfortable silence, crackling with tension, unsaid words and vehement intensity.
A kind of silence, if I may say, was walking through the house, and, like most silence, it was not silent at all: it rapped on the doors, echoed in the clocks, creaked on the stairs, leaned forward to peer into my face and explode.
Torpid systems - it was pleasant to hear them
Humming is the sign of the truly asocial man, for no other sound is at once so soothing and pleasant to its maker and so irritating to any other listener.
Quiet is the shame of the sound that hungry makes.
The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.
Ceaseless as the interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears flow.
She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds.