| Author |
Quotes |
| Alexander Pope | And more than echoes talk along the walls. |
| Alexander Pope | And more than echoes talk along the walls. |
| Edward Young | The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause. |
| Frederick Tennyson | What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone. |
| J G Saxe | But her voice is still living immortal, The same you have frequently heard, In your rambles in valleys and forests, Repeating your ultimate word. |
| Jonathan Swift | Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me, Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the labourers of Babel. |
| Joseph Addison | Let echo, too, perform her part, Prolonging every note with art; And in a low expiring strain, Play all the comfort o'er again. |
| Lord Alfred Tennyson | I heard . . . . . . the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. |
| Lord Alfred Tennyson | And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, And thunder'd up into Heaven. |
| Lord Alfred Tennyson | Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. |
| Percy Bysshe Shelley | Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief. |
| Samuel Rogers | I came to the place of my birth and cried: "The friends of my youth, where are they?"--and an echo answered, "Where are they?" |
| Thomas Moore | How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light. |
| William Wordsworth | Like--but oh! how different! |
| Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. . . . . And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence. |
| John Milton | Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale. |
| Ralph Waldo Emerson | Echo waits with art and care And will the faults of song repair. |
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