Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes

Image of rugged cliffs And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

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Tags : Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes , Art Quotes , Gone Love Quotes

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.

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I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.

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Peace is in the grave.

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The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

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O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below?

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But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!

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So soon as this want or power [of love] is dead, man becomes the living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

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It is among men of genius and science that atheism alone is found.

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O cease! must hate and death return, Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!

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Sorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself are often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain. This is the source also of the melancholy which is inseparable from the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.

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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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Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, 'I will compose poetry.' The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness...and the conscious portions of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure.

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The breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, Which is a mask without it.

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Sounds of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass

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It is found easier, by the short-sighted victims of disease, to palliate their torments by medicine, than to prevent them by regimen

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Senseless is the breast and cold Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill; Every little living nerve That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortur'd lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough.

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Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.

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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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