Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYJoy, once lost, is pain.
More Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
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Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips.
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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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Love’s very pain is sweet.
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A single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought.
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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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All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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And 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.
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I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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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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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?
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Love withers under constraints: its very essence is liberty: it is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy, nor fear.
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There is no disease, bodily or mental, which adoption of vegetable diet, and pure water has not infallibly mitigated, wherever the experiment has been fairly tried.
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Words are but holy as the deeds they cover.
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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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Strange thoughts beget strange deeds.
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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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See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?
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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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Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.
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If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.
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The howl of self-interest is loud but the heart is black which throbs solely to its note.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY