We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYAre we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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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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Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
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When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
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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 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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I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
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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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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
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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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Words are but holy as the deeds they cover.
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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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When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid – in which case all comment is superfluous – or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
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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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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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The jealous keys of truth’s eternal doors.
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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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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I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.
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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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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 man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY