Quote

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.

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
Life
Spring
Agony
Steep
Like
Wise
Dread
Slippery
World
Hours
Narrow
Verge
Lasts
Awful
Throne
Last
Patient
Folds
Power
Healing
Springs
Heart
Wings
Thrones
Crag
Love
Hour
Endurance
Giddy

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Whence are we, and why are we? Of what scene The actors or spectators?
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Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
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Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, all that vain men imagine or believe, or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, we descanted.
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And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
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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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Till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!
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No more let life divide what death can join together.
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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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All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
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I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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The wise want love and those who love want wisdom.
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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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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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Gold is a living god and rules in scorn, All earthly things but virtue.
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Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.
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Woe is me! The winged words on which my soul would pierce Into the heights of love's rare universe, Are chains of lead around its flight of fire-- I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire.
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Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
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When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
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