The jealous keys of truth’s eternal doors.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYPoets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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First our pleasures die – and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust – and we die too.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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I wish no living thing to suffer pain.
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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.
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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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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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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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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I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.
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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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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, – but it returneth!
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I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
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Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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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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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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I love tranquil solitude.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.
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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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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY