Quotes
Quotes about Echo
Feast of Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath & Wells, Hymnographer, 1711 [The] doctrine of [inevitable] progress sustained our fathers in the carrying of capitalistic democratic culture to most parts of the globe. Its core was the conviction that, in thus extending the range of western liberal culture and developing its assumptions, they were in effect establishing on earth that which would grow into the kingdom of God. Some put it sharply but un-Biblically: "building the kingdom"; others, of a more secular turn of mind, echoed J. A. Symonds' hymn, "These Things Shall Be". That whole view exists today only as debris, for it has foundered on the rocks, not so much of human sin, as of the contradictions and complexities of the very western culture that was the substance of its belief.
No history much? Perhaps. Only this ominous Dark beauty flowering under veils, Trapped in the spectrum of a dying style: A village like an instinct left to rust, Composed around the echo of a pistol-shot.
List--'twas the cuckoo--O, with what delight Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint, Far off and faint, and melting into air, Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again! Those louder cries give notice that the bird, Although invisible as Echo's self, Is wheeling hitherward.
Earth is but the frozen echo of the silent voice of God.
Let echo, too, perform her part, Prolonging every note with art; And in a low expiring strain, Play all the comfort o'er again.
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair "Where is my child?"--An echo answers-- "Where?"
Echo waits with art and care And will the faults of song repair.
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. . . . . And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.
How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light.
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
I came to the place of my birth and cried: "The friends of my youth, where are they?"--and an echo answered, "Where are they?"
The birds chaunt melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a checkered shadow on the ground; Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise; And after conflict such as was supposed The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other's arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
I heard . . . . . . the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.
And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, And thunder'd up into Heaven.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
we are all of 1 accord Strike all our souls the same notechord It is only God whom we'll call Lord not those of butcher stock or warlords.
Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear homevoices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smokewreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets Cyrano Act 5.
... I remember you and recall you without effort, without exercise of will; that is, by natural impulse, indicated by a sense of duty, or of obligation. And that, I take it, is the only sort of remembering worth the having. When we think of friends, and call their faces out of the shadows, and their voices out of the echoes that faint along the corridors of memory, and do it without knowing why save that we love to do it, we content ourselves that friendship is a Reality, and not a Fancyâthat it is built upon a rock, and not upon the sands that dissolve away with the ebbing tides and carry their monuments with them.
The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.
'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in hell And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell. On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.
When you find the way/ others will find you./ Passing by on the road/ they will be drawn to your door./ The way that cannot be heard/ will be echoed in your voice./ The way that cannot be seen/ will be reflected in your eyes.
