Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year.
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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.
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All were fat; and well they might Be in admirable plight, For one by one, and two by two, He tossed them human hearts to chew.
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One word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it.
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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.
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Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
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Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid - in which case all comment is superfluous - or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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What! alive, and so bold, O earth?
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By all that is sacred in our hopes for the human race, I conjure those who love happiness and truth, to give a fair trial to the vegetable system.
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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.
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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
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And man … no longer now He slays the lamb that looks him in the face, And horribly devours his mangled flesh.
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From the haunts of daily life Where is waged the daily strife With common wants and common cares Which sows the human heart with tares.
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Titles are tinsel, power a corruptor, glory a bubble, and excessive wealth, a libel on its possessor.
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Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes; And yet I pity those they torture not.
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I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.
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Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, - Swift be thy flight!
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What if English toil and blood Was poured forth, even as a flood? It availed, Oh, Liberty, To dim, but not extinguish thee.
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Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
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Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure; Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.