Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
Through the sunset of hope, Like the shapes of a dream, What paradise islands of glory gleam!
When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, - but it returneth!
Love withers under constraints: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs, - To the silent wilderness, Where the soul need not repress Its music.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
Heaven's ebon vault Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?
Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.
It is impossible that had Buonaparte descended from a race of vegetable feeders that he could have had either the inclination or the power to ascend the throne of the Bourbons.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.
Let there be light! Said Liberty , And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won
Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
Far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea.
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
There is no disease, bodily or mental, which adoption of vegetable diet, and pure water has not infallibly mitigated, wherever the experiment has been fairly tried.
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.
If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.
a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought
Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
Love's very pain is sweet
Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.
There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.
Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.