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 SHELLEYFirst 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.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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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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The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.
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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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Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes – are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
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Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.
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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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To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.
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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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Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
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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!
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.
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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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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Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
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Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
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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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
All love is sweet Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY