Quotes About Echoes

It keeps eternal whisperings aroundDesolate shores, and with its mighty swellGluts twice ten thousand caverns.

It's strange. With all this harmonious interplay of numbers you would have expected the whole system to be a precisely coherent whole. It isn't. There are echoes here from the scientific view of a world formed by broken symmetry, subject to quantum uncertainty and (so far) defying a precise comprehensive 'theory of everything'. Is this why the 'near miss' is so often more beautiful than perfection?

When he went outside, dazed by the echoes of his dream, the tiger was pacing the roof of the trailer. In the light of dawn he noticed the remarkable fact that the animal had wings harmoniously joined to its body. Wings of a swan or an angel. Two fans of white, silky, well-groomed feathers. It had come from a place where it had been raining because drops of water glistened like pellets of mercury on the edges of its feathers. It was something to see.

The wind is full of memories; It whispers low and clear The sacred echoes of the past, And brings the dead more near.

The ballads were a true history of Faerie and a false one. They were true because all stories are true, and false because all stories have echoes and interplay and Faerie was the result of the tension between those two. The pattern of a tapestry was not the substance of the strands.

Someone once said to me,said Marguerite, that our home, our special country, is where we find liberation. I suppose she meant that it is where our souls find it easiest to escape from self, and it seem to me that it is that way with us when what is about us echoes the best that we are.

There is a broken song that plays over in my head each time I hear someone say his name.

As a really young child, I was listening to the echoes of the age before, music hall and stuff like that, as well as classical bits on the radio.

Possibly, I too shall take the train at that station one day, and go and seek around thy lakes, O Norway, O silent Scandinavia... Possibly, someday, I shall hear the lonely echoes of the North repeat the singing of her who knew the Angel of Music...

A hidden soul seemed to be flowing forth from Rosamund's fingers, and so indeed it was, since souls live on in perpetual echoes, and to all fine expression there goes somewhere an originating activity, if it be only that of an interpreter.

History repeats itself.

you don't have to be dead to haunt. Parents, songs, exes.

Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud—We in ourselves rejoice!And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,All melodies the echoes of that voice,All colors a suffusion from that light.

A tale begun in other days, When summer suns were glowing - A simple chime, that served to time The rhythm of your rowing - Whose echoes live in memory yet, Though envious years would say 'forget.

Ghosts are those memories that are too strong to be forgotten for good, echoing across the years and refusing to be obliterated by time.

En ocasiones, en la vieja casa encantada del cerebro, oigo a lo lejos, alguna puerta olvidada. La música de una lejana fiesta espectral, y la agitación de los ecos bajo el chirriante suelo.

This place is a regular whispering-gallery.

We have had our failures." Yes, Karellen, that was true: and were you the one who failed, before the dawn of human history? It must have been a failure indeed, thought Stormgren, for its echoes to roll down all the ages, to haunt the childhood of every race of man. Even in fifty years, could you overcome the power of all the myths and legends of the world?

No matter how far diverged by their singular histories, every human culture in the Thousand Suns resonates to its tragic echoes.

Soundless echoes - no voice, Sadness doth keep thee at bay, Stagnation rises as ebb & flow, Nothing alters, Unless you choose to break away.

The self was never designed to satisfy itself or rely upon itself. It never can be sufficient. We are but in the image of God, not the real thing. We are shadows and echoes. So there will always be an emptiness in the soul that struggles to be satisfied with the resources of self.

O little hour of Love, so wild and sweet! I gave the world, thy honey-dew to eat; And now the tear-sown pathway of the dead Echoes the patter of thy flying feet.

History repeats the old conceits

A passing wave swerved across the prow, and almost struck the megaphone from her hand. She swore at the playful foam, and listened to the echoes of her voice hunting among the rollers. As if bored with themselves, the amplified slogans had faded long before they could reach the shore.