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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYSoul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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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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There Is No God. This negation must be understood solely to affect a creative Deity. The hypothesis of a pervading Spirit co-eternal with the universe remains unshaken.
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Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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The psychological and moral comfort of a presence at once humble and understanding-this is the greatest benefit that the dog has bestowed upon man.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
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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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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
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The jealous keys of truth’s eternal doors.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
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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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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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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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Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
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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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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY