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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.

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
Pleasure
Pain
Affording
Delights
Exists
Delight
Tragedy
Shadow

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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
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No one has yet been found resolute enough in dogmatizing to deny that Nature made man equal that society has destroyed this equality is a truth not more incontrovertible.
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O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb
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What is Freedom? ye can tell That which slavery is, too well For its very name has grown To an echo of your own.
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Mild is the slow necessity of death The tranquil spirit fails beneath its grasp, Without a groan, almost without a fear, Resigned in peace to the necessity Calm as a voyager to some distant land, And full of wonder, full of hope as he.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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I have drunken deep of joy.
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I love Love -- though he has wings, And like light can flee.
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But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity Her citizens, imperial spirits, Rule the present from the past, On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set.
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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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Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
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The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings.
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The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought.
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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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Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may last!
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Ere Babylon was dust, The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, Met his own image walking in the garden, That apparition, sole of men, he saw.
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When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid - in which case all comment is superfluous - or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
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Our Adonais has drunk poisonoh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?
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A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.
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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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