Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThe man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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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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Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.
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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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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 love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
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I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
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Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
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Sometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
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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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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.
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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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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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Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
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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.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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I love tranquil solitude.
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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 a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY