Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes

What is Love? It is that powerful attraction towards all that we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves.

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Let there be light! Said Liberty , And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!

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Chastity is a monkish and evangelical superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance even than unintellectual sensuality; it strikes at the root of all domestic happiness, and consigns more than half of the human race to misery.

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In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

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There are two Italies.... The one is the most sublime and lovely contemplation that can be conceived by the imagination of man; the other is the most degraded, disgusting, and odious. What do you think? Young women of rank actually eat - you will never guess what - garlick! Our poor friend Lord Byron is quite corrupted by living among these people, and in fact, is going on in a way not worthy of him.

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Gold is a living god and rules in scorn, All earthly things but virtue.

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I love all waste and solitary places.

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Man, who wert once a despot and a slave, A dupe and a deceiver! a decay, A traveller from the cradle to the grave Through the dim night of this immortal day.

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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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O'er Egypt's land of memory floods are level, And they are thine, O Nile! and well thou knowest The soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil, And fruits, and poisons spring where'er thou flowest.

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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

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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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Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.

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Whence are we, and why are we? Of what scene The actors or spectators?

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What is Freedom? ye can tell That which slavery is, too well For its very name has grown To an echo of your own.

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The most fertile districts of the habitable globe are now actually cultivated by men for animals, at a delay and waste of aliment absolutely incapable of calculation

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[L]ike thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born.

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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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I Fall upon the thorns of life.

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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.

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