One day, bending over him, her hair (drying from a salt-water swim) flying about him, the one-woman, her two hands holding his head and jowls so that his ribbon of kissing tongue just missed her nose in the empty air, sang to
him: "'Don't know what to call him, but he's mighty lak' a rose!'"
So the Nightingale sang to
the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
Then they flew away to the gardens, and soon, high up among the tree-tops, or under the broad leaves, sat the Elves in little groups, taking their breakfast of fruit and pure fresh dew; while the bright-winged birds came fearlessly among them, pecking the same ripe berries, and dipping their little beaks in the same flower-cups, and the Fairies folded their arms lovingly about them, smoothed their soft bosoms, and gayly sang to them.
Thus their little hands led him back to peace and happiness, flowers bloomed beside his door, and their fragrant breath brought happy thoughts of pleasant valleys and green hills; birds sang to him, and their sweet voices woke the music in his own soul, that never failed to calm and comfort.
Most notably, as Paul D and other prisoners "danc[ed] two-step to the music of hand-forged iron," they sang to
affirm their humanity while being worked and tied like animals:
She said, "I want to work with you," and I said, "Awesome!" So we just sat down at a little table in the motel and sang to
each other, just sang back and forth until I finally understood that it wasn't anything like opera, which could be done purely mechanically.