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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!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Percy Bysshe Shelley
Age: 29 †
Born: 1792
Born: August 4
Died: 1822
Died: July 8
Linguist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Seen
Equinox
Heard
Luster
Fall
August
September
Autumn
Harmony
Sky
Summer

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a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought
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Everytime we say that god is the author of some phenomenon, that signifies that we are ignorant of how such a phenomenon was caused by the forces of nature.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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Love is free to promise for ever to love the same woman is not less absurd than to promise to believe the same creed such a vow in both cases excludes us from all inquiry.
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The babe is at peace within the womb, the corpse is at rest within the tomb. We begin in what we end.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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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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This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.
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Whatever strengthens and purifies the affections, enlarges the imagination, and adds spirit to sense, is useful.
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Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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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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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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He hath awakened from the dream of life.
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Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may.
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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - he hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep with phantoms an unprofitable strife.
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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
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