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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.

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
Music
Memorial
Voices
Soft
Vibrates
Piano
Headstone
Memory
Gravestone
Memories
Vibrate
Dies
Epitaph
Voice
Slumber

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Till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!
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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 love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.
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Whatever strengthens and purifies the affections, enlarges the imagination, and adds spirit to sense, is useful.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
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No more let life divide what death can join together.
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The One remains, the many change and pass Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.
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The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.
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The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
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Obedience indeed is only the pitiful and cowardly egotism of him who thinks that he can do something better than reason.
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Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.
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He has outsoared the shadow of our night envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again from the contagion of the world's slow stain, he is secure.
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Through the sunset of hope, Like the shapes of a dream, What paradise islands of glory gleam!
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So is Hope Changed for Despair-one laid upon the shelf, We take the other. Under heaven's high cope Fortune is god-all you endure and do Depends on circumstance as much as you.
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs And folds over the world its healing wings.
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