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Religion! but for thee, prolific fiend, Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, And heaven with slaves!
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
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Men
Demon
Thee
Slave
Atheism
Hell
Fiend
Heaven
Prolific
Religion
Demons
Earth
Slaves
More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley
For there are deeds which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.
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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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Be your strong and simple words Keen to wound as sharpened swords, And wide as targes let them be, With their shade to cover ye.
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The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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Gold is a living god and rules in scorn, All earthly things but virtue.
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I love Love -- though he has wings, And like light can flee.
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Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.
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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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What do you think? Young women of rank eat - you will never guess what - garlick!
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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.
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His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
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Whatever strengthens and purifies the affections, enlarges the imagination, and adds spirit to sense, is useful.
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Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
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War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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The babe is at peace within the womb, the corpse is at rest within the tomb. We begin in what we end.
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The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.
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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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Thou art Justice ne'er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold As laws are in England thou Shield'st alike the high and low.
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Belief is involuntary nothing involuntary is meritorious or reprehensible. A man ought not to be considered worse or better for his belief.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
