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.

Frederick Tennyson

Frederick Tennyson

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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.

— 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

I heard . . . . . . the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.

— Lord Alfred Tennyson

Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.

— Frederick Tennyson

BreathesDiesJoys

Two aged men, that had been foes for life, Met by a grave, and wept - and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.

— Frederick Tennyson