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Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!

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
Thou
Exiles
Italy
Exile
Paradise

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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
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Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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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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And many an ante-natal tomb Where butterflies dream of the life to come.
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The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.
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The practice of utter sincerity towards other men would avail to no good end, if they were incapable of practising it towards their own minds. In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
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I love Love - though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee - Thou art love and life! Oh come, Make once more my heart thy home.
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It is vain philosophy that supposes more causes than are exactly adequate to explain the phenomena of things.
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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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Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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All love is sweet, given or received.
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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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The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
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Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
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The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
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Sow seed--but let no tyrant reap Find wealth--let no imposter heap Weave robes--let not the idle wear Forge arms--in your defence to bear.
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It were much better that a sentient being should never have existed, than that it should have existed only to endure unmitigated misery.
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