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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.
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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Poet
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Whether
Talked
Stills
Peter
Still
Conception
Firsts
Stupidity
First
Dull
People
Wrote
Dulness
Beyond
Rehearsed
Stupid
Cursed
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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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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
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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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O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb
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Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity.
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Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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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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I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.
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I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
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So is Hope Changed for Despair-one laid upon the shelf, We take the other. Under heaven's high cope Fortune is god-all you endure and do Depends on circumstance as much as you.
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Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
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[L]ike thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born.
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Sometimes it's better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
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Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
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The crime of inquiry is one which religion never has forgiven.
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Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?
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Until the mind can love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the unconscious passenger tramples into dust.
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I love all waste And solitary places where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be.
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The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.
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