When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYFear not for the future, weep not for the past.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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 SHELLEY -
Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Joy, once lost, is pain.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY






