Echoes

The shouting echoes loudly.

The room echoes with his voice.

The valley echoes the sound of the waterfall.

He echoes his wife in everything.

Publishing poems is like throwing rose petals into the Grand Canyon and waiting for echoes.

In Russia, as elsewhere in the world, folklore is rapidly scattering before the practical spirit of modern progress. The traveling peasant bard or story teller, and the devoted "nyanya", the beloved nurse of many a generation, are rapidly dying out, and with them the tales and legends, the last echoes of the nation's early joys and sufferings, hopes and fears, are passing away.

Empty places produce the best echoes.

In such surroundings the mind loses its perspective; time and space become trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the enthralled consciousness.

As they passed, a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes in the silent gorges, and startled the weary horses into a gallop.

Meanwhile a mingled murmur through the street / rolls onward – wails of anguish, shrieks of fear –, / and though my father's mansion stood secrete, / embowered in foliage, nearer and more near / peals the dire clang of arms, and loud and clear, / borne on fierce echoes that in tumult blend, / war-shout and wail come thickening on the ear.