Quotes About Echo

There is no word for the sound a life makes.

The judge pronounced the sentence, and those words kept echoing in my head: Thirty-five years to life. His gavel came down and the court officers led me back to the holding cell.

We can twist poet Alexander Pope's diktat—"the sound must seem an echo of the sense"—into a caveat for the novice writer: When sound doesn't echo sense, the writing misfires.

I roamed alone; O, barren dreams. My echoed voice, what lonely comfort. Here is my salvation: I hear the triumph drum; the rhythm of the rising, the long-awaited sun.

We are an echo that runs, skittering, through a train of rooms. – Czeslaw Milosz, from "The Wormwood Star." The Separate Notebooks . (Ecco September 21, 1986) Originally published 1984.

We are an echo that runs, skittering, through a train of rooms

For the first time, he heard something that he knew to be music. He heard people singing. Behind him, across vast distances of space and time, from the place he had left, he thought he heard music too. But perhaps, it was only an echo.

Sublimity is the echo of a noble mind.

The mirror is the mother dew, the book of desiccated twilights, echo become flesh.

But don't you see, pervading the letter and guiding the pen, the great intellectual and moral defect of the present day? I mean, the habit of dwelling on appearances, not on realities, of preferring the report to the bullet, and the echo to the report.

It is the nature of the universe that things remain. Nothing ever disappears completely. The very sound of Creation still echoes throughout the vast darkness: The universe remembers

I think people assume death is all or nothing. Someone is here, or they're not. But that's not what it's like, is it? The echo of you is still here—in your children or grandchildren; in the art you made while living; in the memories other people have of you.

Grief, it turns out, is a lot like a one-sided video conversation on an iPad. It's the call with no response, the echo of affection, the shadow cast by love.

Never's just the echo of forever, lonesome as a love that might have been. Let me go on lovin' and believin' 'til it's over. Please don't tell me how the story ends.

mas no entanto vejo na minha obra um eco do que me impressionou, vejo que a natureza me contou algo, falou comigo, e que eu anotei isto em estenografia.

They shall be remembered forever, They shall be alive forever, They shall be speaking forever, The people shall hear them forever.

Go gather by the humming sea Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell, And to its lips thy story tell.

Utterance" Sitting over words Very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing Not far Like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark The echo of everything that has ever Been spoken Still spinning its one syllable Between the earth and silence

The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.

I was screaming into the canyon at the moment of my death; the echo I created outlasted my last breath.

The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.

the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more.

when you turn a short span of time into a "season," you create an echo chamber for all of its associations

Echoing off the tile walls, the sizzle-splash of the falling water sounded like the hissing of serpents and the brittle laughter of strange children.