Before man can be free, and equal, and truly wise, he must cast aside the chains of habit and superstition; he must strip sensuality of its pomp, and selfishness of its excuses, and contemplate actions and objects as they really are.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYAnd 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.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes – are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry.
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I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
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Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs, – To the silent wilderness, Where the soul need not repress Its music.
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War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.
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The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
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If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.
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All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
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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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Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.
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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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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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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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When my cats aren’t happy, I’m not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they’re just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY