The sweetest of all sounds is that of the voice of the woman we love.

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?

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

I have never fallen in love with my own voice, but I've always had an attraction for it.

There is no index so sure as the voice.