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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.

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
Believe
Believing
Love
Souls
Waste
Places
Taste
Pleasure
Wish
Boundless
Soul
Solitary

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Nature rejects the monarch, not the man the subject, not the citizen... The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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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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I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.
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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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True love in this differs from gold and clay, that to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, gazing on many truths.
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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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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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Through the sunset of hope, Like the shapes of a dream, What paradise islands of glory gleam!
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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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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 wise want love and those who love want wisdom.
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
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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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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.
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A poet, as he is the author to others of the highest wisdom, pleasure, virtue, and glory, so he ought personally to be the happiest, the best, the wisest, and the most illustrious of men.
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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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... 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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Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.
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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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