Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI 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.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead – When the cloud is scattered The rainbow’s glory is shed.
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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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The jealous keys of truth’s eternal doors.
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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.
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If a person’s religious ideas correspond not with your own, love him nevertheless.
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Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
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Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.
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Heaven’s ebon vault Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world.
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I wish no living thing to suffer pain.
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Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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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.
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A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.
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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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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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Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
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It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion, and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust.
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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 we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY