I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYWar is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI love tranquil solitude.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYHonour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYStrange thoughts beget strange deeds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYNothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYA poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThe pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThere 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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYNothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYLove’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYLove’s very pain is sweet.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYWhen a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY