A man's style is his mind's voice. Wooden minds, wooden voices.
At some glad moment was it nature's choice to dower a scrap of sunset with a voice?
I have never fallen in love with my own voice, but I've always had an attraction for it.
It is the still, small voice that the soul heeds, not the deafening blasts of doom.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.
The sweetest of all sounds is that of the voice of the woman we love.
Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.
There is no index so sure as the voice.