Quotes About Echoes

Marina, you took away all the words with you...

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

All houses in which men have lived and suffered and died are haunted houses.

"I saw her, in the fire, but now. I hear her in music, in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night," returned the haunted man.

Books are dead men talking.

Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.

A woodpecker's drilling Echoes To the mountain clouds.

We are humanity, the banner read. Wrong. We're pale reflections of it, weak shadows, distant echoes.

The music of kindness may be short lived, but its echoes are everlasting.

Only times and places, only names and ghosts.

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

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

If we do not learn by heart, the heart does not feel the rhythms of poetry as echoes or variations of its own insistent beat.

Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.

People are looking for chimes and resonances. Chimes leave echoes, and that's what rhyme is. Poetry is about leaving an echo imprint in somebody else's head, in the dark snow of their mind.

Man ... has an inborn religious sentiment that whispers of a God to his inmost soul, as a shell taken from the deep yet echoes forever the ocean's roar.

The echoes of childhood torments have great power, even when not brought to mind in such an inexplicable and horrifying way.

I'm a busy author with a sense of Humor, so hang, it's a bumpy ride"!

History is a symphony of echoes heard and unheard. It is a poem with events as verses.

History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days.

History, we know, is apt to repeat itself.

To tell a ghost story means being willing to be haunted.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

When there is an original sound in the world, it makes a hundred echoes.