Henry David Thoreau Quotes

Echo is the voice of a reflection in a mirror.

echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.

For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.

Everything seems an echo of something else.

Style is a magic wand, and turns everything to gold that it touches.

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.

Of course, your voice always sounds better in the shower for some reason, maybe it's just the octaves or, I don't know, the water, I have no idea.

each separate flower has a magic all its own.

Too many individuals are like Shakespeare's definition of "echo,"--babbling gossips of the air.

That tuneful nymph, the babbling Echo.

Love is the magician of the universe. It creates everything out of nothing.

So how come it looks so beautiful? How come the moon falls from the sky?

Poised for flight, Wings spread bright, Spring from night into the Sun.

Every something is an echo of nothing

Sorrows are gardeners: they plant flowers along waste places, and teach vines to cover barren heaps.

Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo.

Tell me now in what hidden way isLady Flora the lovely Roman?Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,Neither of them the fairer woman?Where is Echo, beheld of no man,Only heard on river and mere-She whose beauty was more than human?-But where are the snows of yester-year?

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Nature is beautiful, not because it changes beautifully, but simply because it changes.

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

Art is a delayed echo.

Laughter appears to stand in need of an echo, Listen to it carefully: it is not an articulate, clear, well-defined sound; it is something which would fain be prolonged by reverberating from one to another, something beginning with a crash, to continue in successive rumblings, like thunder in a mountain.

To write is to make oneself the echo of what cannot cease speaking - and since it cannot, in order to become its echo I have, in a way, to silence it. I bring to this incessant speech the decisiveness, the authority of my own silence.

All little creatures are beautiful...every living thing when it first sees life is born in beauty. What they grow to be is a different matter.