In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYWhen 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.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
-
-
A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
It is not a merit to tolerate, but rather a crime to be intolerant.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY -
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY