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Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.

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
Sweet
Beyond
Divine
Pain
Builds
Love
Grave
Life
Reward
World
Graves
Rewards

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Sounds of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
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Religion pervades intensely the whole frame of society, and is according to the temper of the mind which it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, a refuge never a check.
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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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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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A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.
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Contemporary criticism only represents the amount of ignorance genius has to contend with. . . . Time will reverse the judgement of the vulgar.
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Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
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Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.
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A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively he must put himself in the place of another and of many others the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
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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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Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.
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Chastity is a monkish and evangelical superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance even than unintellectual sensuality it strikes at the root of all domestic happiness, and consigns more than half of the human race to misery.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
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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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Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.
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Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may last!
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Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom.
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