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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
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
Winter
Grief
Return
Year
Gone
Come
Revolving
Years
Woe
Returns
More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley
The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought.
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
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Jealousy's eyes are green.
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I have drunken deep of joy.
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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The advocates of literal interpretation have been the most efficacious enemies of those doctrines whose nature they profess to venerate.
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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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No more let life divide what death can join together.
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At the very time that philosophers of the most enterprising benevolence were founding in Greece those institutions which have rendered it the wonder and luminary of the world, am I required to believe that the weak and wicked king of an obscure and barbarous nation, a murderer, a traitor and a tyrant, was the man after God's own heart?
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By all that is sacred in our hope for the human race, I conjure those who love happiness and truth to give a fair trial to the vegetable system!
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
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a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
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Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.
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There is no real wealth but the labour of man. Were the mountains of gold and the valleys of silver, the world would not be one grain of corn the richer no one comfort would be added to the human race.
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When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead - When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed.
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Peace is in the grave.
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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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