Here you will find the Poem Echo. of poet Robert Crawford
Here, Echo, was thy reign of old, Among these hills, a mystic crowd Whose thunder rolled When they speak loud Still shocks the sea: here thy hair grew Long as a cloud whose shadow drew Itself o'er chaos, ere Time rose With life and death and all of those Who live and die, whose weakest word Thine ears have heard; Still as thou sitt'st with sightless eyes On a bright cloud in the lone vale, Or leaning o'er a mountain rill Dost hark the ebbing roar Of a dead sea on some primeval shore, Whose unrecorded memories Are like the language of old gods who fell From some starred pinnacle In the lost years ? as all things will Too fall at last, and the great tale Of Time be never more retold; Ay, e'en when chaos is re-rolled O'er the opprest and the oppressor, thou (Unseen, and but a word within that wail) Shalt pass as in a trance where thought may go When all is lying low.
