Singing : Sing
Singing is the act of producing musical sounds with the voice. Air is expelled with the diaphragm as with ordinary breathing, and the pitch is altered with the vocal cords. With the lips closed this is called humming[?]. A piece of music that is sung is called a song.Most singing involves shaping the mouth to form words, but types of mouth music which use open sounds or nonsense syllables ("vocables") also exist, for instance scat singing. Solfege assigns certain syllables to notes in the scale.
Singing can be heard in many different places, since anyone who can speak can sing. It can be informal and just for pleasure (for example in the shower), or very formal, such as singing done professionally in a performance or in a recording studio.
Singing is often done in a group, such as a choir, and may be accompanied by musical instruments, a full orchestra or a band.
Singing with no instrumental accompaniment is called a capella. However, the Choral Journal[?] and other vocal-related publications actively discouage the use of this term and prefer unaccompanied.
Quote
- Sing a song. Make it simple to last your whole life long. Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear.
- —from the song "Sing" by Joe Raposo[?].
In barren attic bleak and cold,
Such things as flowers and song and you;
Still as of old his being give
Beauty that may not die as long
To S. M.
Into the earth, where Helen went;
Where Cleopatra's anklets rust
And Sappho is a roving dust;
Rotted in state, is restless still:
The Philosopher
And what are you that, wanting you
As many nights as there are days
As many days as crawl
And looking at the wall?
I know a man.html">man that's a braver man
And what are you, that you should be
As any sage will tell,--
So wisely and so well?
I
love.html">Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!--
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair
Who still am/am.html">am free, unto no querulous care
I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
II
I think.html">think.html">think I should have loved you presently,
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And all my pretty follies flung aside
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
III
Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow!
Were you not lovely I would leave you now;
Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,
I would desert you--think not but I would!--
But you are mobile as the veering air,
Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:
So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,
IV
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
Your little month, your little half a year,
.
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