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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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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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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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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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
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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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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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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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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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What! alive, and so bold, O earth?
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
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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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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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Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes; And yet I pity those they torture not.
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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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Titles are tinsel, power a corruptor, glory a bubble, and excessive wealth, a libel on its possessor.
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A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.
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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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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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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.