And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYNothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
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If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.
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Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal.
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
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A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.
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I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Life and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, is an astonishing thing. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the wonder of our being. We are struck with admiration at some of its transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle.
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Joy, once lost, is pain.
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Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
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All love is sweet Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
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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.
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I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.
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I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
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Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.
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I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be.
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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?
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.
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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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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY