It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.

It is the still small voice that the soul heeds; not the deafening blasts of doom.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet read more

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 rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

And rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

There is no index of character so sure as the voice.

There is no index of character so sure as the voice.

. . . solitude is such a potential thing. We hear voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry read more

. . . solitude is such a potential thing. We hear voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry and turmoil of life; we receive counsels and comforts, we get under no other condition . . .

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

The human voice is the organ of the soul.

My voice stuck in my throat.
[Lat., Vox faucibus haesit.]

My voice stuck in my throat.
[Lat., Vox faucibus haesit.]

Your voice dries up if you don't use it.

Your voice dries up if you don't use it.

Thy voice
Is a celestial melody.

Thy voice
Is a celestial melody.