Quotes About Echoes

I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by and by into our lives.

The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.

Poetry is the tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.

whatever tongue we speak the old ghost asserts itself in dusky echoes

Memories are hunting horns Whose sound dies on the wind.

it's raining womens voices as if they were dead even in memory

Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent

The house continues to call out from parts unseen, aches and hiccups and wheezes, a centuries-old creature drawing long, labored breaths. When

Marriage has a unique place because it speaks of an absolute faithfulness, a covenant between radically different persons, male and female; and so it echoes the absolute covenant of God with his chosen, a covenant between radically different partners.

Malacca fascinates me more and more daily. There is, among other things, a mediaevalism about it. The noise of the modern world reaches it only in the faintest echoes; its sleep is almost dreamless. Its sensations seem to come out of books read in childhood.

With his compulsively slamming lyrics and king-of-the-world delivery, DMX intuitively echoes the existentialism of the projects of the novelist Donald Goines.

Sound, the blindman's cane of sense: I write death and for a moment I live within it. I inhabit its sound: a pneumatic cube of glass, vibrating on this page, vanishing among its echoes.

Said, who was born in Mandatory Palestine in 1935, was fond of T. S. Eliot's idea that reality could not be deprived of the other echoes that inhabit the garden.

Stories order the pieces. They begin as seismic shifts, then they surface, becoming ripples that lap upon foreign shores. They are the echoes that resonate in this world and the next.

I hear the passing echoes of winter and feel the warming springtime sun.

I grew up in those years when the Old West was passing and the New West was emerging. It was a time when we still heard echoes and already saw shadows, on moonlit nights when the coyotes yapped on the hilltops, and on hot summer afternoons when mirages shimmered, dust devils spun across the flats, and towering cumulus clouds sailed like galleons across the vast blueness of the sky. Echoes of remembrance of what men once did there, and visions of what they would do together.

Whatever has happened, there is always that magic winter haunting and hurting me with its marvelous echoes. The shortest days of the year, when nothing had begun and nothing had ended, all the roads of life were alive, and time beat round me like a heart.

Home! By what magic comes this spell? What wand has touched these humble walls, And made them glow as with a holy warmth? What disembodied spirit glorifies the place? Whose feet may claim the phantom echoes That bring once more a thrill? Whose memoried voice is this that holds More sacred music in its roughest note Than ever came from seraph's throat?

He wondered if somewhere far off, defying the laws of science, Mitch's two screams were still echoing, if those vibrations had traveled into space, if they moved on and on like rays in a light-year. There might be other forms of life who were receiving the noise and trying to interpret the tones.

Wait for me, you said. Then left me alone in the echoing world.

What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end...

Inside those waves our voices bounced back at us, deeper and larger for all the noise, like the voices of men.

I have said that you sang in the wind like the pines and like the masts. Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage. You gather things to you like an old road. You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices. I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated that had been sleeping in your soul.

I am the one without hope, the word without echoes, he who lost everything and he who had everything. Last hawser, in you creaks my last longing. In my barren land you are the final rose.