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My father Time is weak and gray With waiting for a better day See how idiot-like he stands, Fumbling with his palsied hands!
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
Like
Idiot
Stands
Weak
Waiting
Father
Hands
Palsied
Better
Fumbling
Time
Gray
More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes.
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Like a glowworm golden, in a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden its aerial blue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view.
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Let there be light! Said Liberty , And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!
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Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
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The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
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Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
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In each human heart terror survives The ravin it has gorged: the loftiest fear All that they would disdain to think were true: Hypocrisy and custom make their minds The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. They dare not devise good for man's estate, And yet they know not that they do not dare.
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O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb
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He gave man speech, and speech created thought, Which is the measure of the universe.
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Peace is in the grave.
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Thou art Justice ne'er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold As laws are in England thou Shield'st alike the high and low.
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
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This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.
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The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them. The wise want love and those who love want wisdom.
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The intense atom glows A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.
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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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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
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O cease! must hate and death return, Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
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(Title: To the Moon) Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth,-- And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?
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