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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.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Percy Bysshe Shelley
Age: 29 †
Born: 1792
Born: August 4
Died: 1822
Died: July 8
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Arguments
Conclusive
Infinity
Animates
Vast
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Intellect
Meanest
Argument
Insect
Tree
Leafs
Think
Leaf
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Insects
More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
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The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?
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Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
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In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.
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True love in this differs from gold and clay, that to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, gazing on many truths.
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The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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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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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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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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Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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I love Love -- though he has wings, And like light can flee.
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The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings.
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Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.
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Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.
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Gold is a living god and rules in scorn, All earthly things but virtue.
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I stood within the city disinterred And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls Of spirits passng through the streets and heard the Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless halls The oracular thunder penetrating shook The listening soul in my suspended blood.
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Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
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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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