Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYFirst our pleasures die – and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust – and we die too.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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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.
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I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
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Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
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Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
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Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
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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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If a person’s religious ideas correspond not with your own, love him nevertheless.
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First our pleasures die – and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust – and we die too.
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Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
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See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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Sometimes it’s better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?
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A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.
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Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
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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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Love’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
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War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY