The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThe young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset’s fire.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYStrange thoughts beget strange deeds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYPoetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYA poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYIt is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYWhen the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead – When the cloud is scattered The rainbow’s glory is shed.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYAway, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs, – To the silent wilderness, Where the soul need not repress Its music.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYSometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYJoy, once lost, is pain.
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 SHELLEYA single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYSing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThe 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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYGovernment 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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYHell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY