Though a breach was made in the wall by means of engines, nevertheless the capture of the place did not immediately follow even then. On the contrary, the defenders killed great numbers [of Romans] who tried to crowd through the opening and they also set fire to some of the buildings nearby, hoping thus to check the further progress of the Romans. Nevertheless, the soldiers, because of their superstition, did not immediately rush in but at last, under compulsion from Titus, they made their way inside. Then the Jews defended themselves much more vigorously than before, as if they had discovered a piece of rare good fortune in being able to fight near the Temple and fall in its defense.” The populace was stationed below in the court and the elders on the steps and the priests in the Sanctuary itself. And though they were but a handful fighting against a far superior force, they were not conquered until part of the Temple was set on fire. Then they met their death willingly, some throwing themselves on the swords of the Romans, some slaying one another, others taking their own lives and still others leaping into the flames. And it seemed to everybody and especially to them that so far from being destruction, it was victory and salvation and happiness to them that they perished along with the Temple. While the holy house (The Temple) was on fire, everything was plundered that came to hand, and ten thousand of those that were caught were slain; nor was there a commiseration of any age…but children and old men…and priests, were all slain in the same manner….The flame was also carried a long way, and made an echo, together with the groans of those who were slain…one would have thought the whole city would have been on fire. Nor can one imagine anything greater and more terrible than this noise.
Describing the conquest and destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple in 70 AD.
Heaven is dumb, echoing only the dumb.
You arrive at a village, and in this calm environment, one starts to hear echo.
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
...but what has been said once can always be repeated.
Everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again reverberated everlasting farewells!
'No Bones' has some reverb that I kick around.
What is Freedom? ye can tell That which slavery is, too well For its very name has grown To an echo of your own.
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.
Remember, what you say comes back to you.
That tuneful nymph, the babbling Echo.
If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves. Moving, be like water. Still, be like a mirror. Respond like an echo.
And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
We say peace and the echo comes back from the other side, war. We dont want wars even when we win.
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.
I love the word 'resonance.'
I have only one friend, and that is echo. Why is it my friend? Because I love my sorrow, and echo does not take it away from me. I have only one confidant, and that is the silence of night. Why is it my confidant? Because it remains silent.
The old laws of England — they Whose reverend heads with age are gray, Children of a wiser day; And whose solemn voice must be Thine own echo — Liberty!
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.
Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
Translation is at best an echo.
As time passes by and you look at portraits, the people come back to you like a silent echo. A photograph is a vestige of a face, a face in transit. Photography has something to do with death. It's a trace.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
The summit sings what is being spoken in the depths.
Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.