Sing 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 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.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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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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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight, the lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade.
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Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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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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Sometimes it’s better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
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History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
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The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
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The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.
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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.
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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Life 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.
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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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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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Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
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Joy, once lost, is pain.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY