Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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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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Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, And other such ladylike luxuries.
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The moon of Mahomet Arose, and it shall set; While, blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon, The cross leads generations on.
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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
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Are ye, two vultures sick for battle, Two scorpions under one wet stone, Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle, Two crows perched on the murrained cattle, Two vipers tangled into one.
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With hue like that when some great painter dips His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.
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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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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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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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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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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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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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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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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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A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one.
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On a poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept.
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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
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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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What! alive, and so bold, O earth?
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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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The sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea: What are all these kissings worth If thou kiss not me?