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Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.

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
Touches
Whatever
Power
Like
Pollutes
Pestilence

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Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.
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Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
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For there are deeds which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.
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The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
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Thou demandest what is love? It is that powerful attraction towards all that we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves.
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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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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The Galilean is not a favorite of mine. So far from owing him any thanks for his favor, I cannot avoid confessing that I owe a secret grudge to his carpentership.
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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
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Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle Such lamps within the dome of this dim world That the pale name of priest might shrink and dwindle Into the Hell from which it first was furled.
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Sow seed--but let no tyrant reap Find wealth--let no imposter heap Weave robes--let not the idle wear Forge arms--in your defence to bear.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
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I love Love - though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee - Thou art love and life! Oh come, Make once more my heart thy home.
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It is vain philosophy that supposes more causes than are exactly adequate to explain the phenomena of things.
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To hope till hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates.
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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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The One remains, the many change and pass Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.
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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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Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may last!
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It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed for all eternity than to conceive a being beyond its limits capable of creating it.
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