Love’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, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
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 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 SHELLEYOnly nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYLife and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, is an astonishing thing. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the wonder of our being. We are struck with admiration at some of its transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYPoetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYWorse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThe man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYThe rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYSometimes The Devil is a gentleman.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYBefore 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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYHonour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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 SHELLEYOur sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY