Quotes
Quotes about Echo
Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless. -Mother Theresa.
The sound of a kiss is much softer than that of a cannon - but it's echo lasts a great deal longer.
Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Education is the state-controlled manufacture of echoes.
Footfalls echo in the memory, Down the passage which we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.
Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!
Sublimity is the echo of a noble mind.
Knowledge is soon changed, then lost in the mist, an echo half-heard.
Money talks â but credit has an echo.
There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
Fools-to-free-the-world, they go, Primeval hearts from Buffalo. Red cataracts of France to-day Awake, three thousand miles away, An echo of Niagara The cataract of Niagara.
Hark! that's the nightingale, Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale.
When there is an original sound in the world, it makes a hundred echoes.
When we find a thinker reflecting or echoing an apparently erroneous, narrow, or even illogical thought that was popular or authoritative in his time, we must never rule out the possibility that what we have discovered is not the limit of his vision but only an example of his deliberate rhetorical accommodation to reigning prejudice which he does not share but thinks it best not to expose.
Quite often in history action has been the echo of words. An era of talk was followed by an era of events. The new barbarism of the twentieth century is the echo of words bandied about by brilliant speakers and writers in the second half of the nineteenth.
Our quarrel with the world is an echo of the endless quarrel proceeding within us.
Remorse is the echo of a lost virtue.
Rumor doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
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.
When great poets sing, Into the night new constellations spring, With music in the air that dulls the craft Of rhetoric. So when Shakespeare sang or laughed The world with long, sweet Alpine echoes thrilled Voiceless to scholars' tongues no muse had filled With melody divine.
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Backward, turn backward, then time in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight. Mother, come back from the echoeless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore.
In Venice, Tass's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear.
I wonder if ever a song was sung but the singer's heart sang sweeter! I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung but the thought surpassed the meter! I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought! Or, if ever a painter with light and shade the dream of his inmost heart portrayed!
The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.
