All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYAnd Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
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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.
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Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
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I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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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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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
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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Love’s very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
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It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion, and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust.
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I 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.
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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.
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY