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The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Percy Bysshe Shelley
Age: 29 †
Born: 1792
Born: August 4
Died: 1822
Died: July 8
Linguist
Novelist
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Think
Sweet
Daisies
Thinking
Open
Cemetery
Space
Violet
Death
Buried
Place
Covered
Might
Ruins
Make
Winter
Love
Among
Violets
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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As I lay asleep in Italy There came a voice from over the Sea, And with great power it forth led me To walk in the visions of Poesy.
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There Is No God. This negation must be understood solely to affect a creative Deity. The hypothesis of a pervading Spirit co-eternal with the universe remains unshaken.
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It is true that the reluctance to abstain from animal food, in those who have been long accustomed to its stimulus, is so great in some persons of weak minds, as to be scarcely overcome but this is far from bringing any argument in its favour
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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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Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.
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His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
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Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
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My neighbour, or my servant, or my child, has done me an injury, and it is just that he should suffer an injury in return. Such is the doctrine which Jesus Christ summoned his whole resources of persuasion to oppose.
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The emptiness and folly of retaliation are apparent from every example which can be brought forward. Not only Jesus Christ, but the most eminent professors of every sect of philosophy, have reasoned against this futile superstition.
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Peter was dull he was at first Dull - Oh, so dull - so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed - Still with his dulness was he cursed - Dull -beyond all conception - dull.
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... a wild dissolving bliss Over my frame he breathed, approaching near, And bent his eyes of kindling tenderness Near mine, and on my lips impressed a lingering kiss
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I Fall upon the thorns of life.
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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.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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A dream has power to poison sleep.
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I am convinced that there can be no regeneration of mankind until laughter is put down.
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Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
