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For there are deeds which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

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
Form
Sufferings
Cruelty
Deeds
Tongue
Compassion
Suffering

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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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And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
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The intense atom glows A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.
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The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.
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I am convinced that there can be no regeneration of mankind until laughter is put down.
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Sometimes it's better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
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Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.
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All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
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Religion! but for thee, prolific fiend, Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, And heaven with slaves!
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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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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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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And many an ante-natal tomb Where butterflies dream of the life to come.
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Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
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And Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
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This, and no other, is justice: — to consider, under all the circumstances and consequences of a particular case, how the greatest quantity and purest quality of happiness will ensue from any action ... there is no other justice.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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