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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.

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
Lies
Shattered
Dead
Lamps
Lying
Cloud
Light
Rainbow
Shed
Dust
Clouds
Scattered
Glory
Lamp

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Let there be light! Said Liberty , And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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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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Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
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Words are but holy as the deeds they cover.
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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
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Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
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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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Had this author [Sir W Drummond Academical Questions, chap. iii.], instead of inveighing against the guilt and absurdity of atheism, demonstrated its falsehood, his conduct would have, been more suited to the modesty of the skeptic and the toleration of the philosopher.
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Peace is in 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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Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
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The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.
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I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.
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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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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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I am not much of a hand at love songs, you see I mingle metaphysics with even this, but perhaps in this age of Philosophy that may be excused.
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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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Peter was dull he was at first Dull - Oh, so dull - so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed - Still with his dulness was he cursed - Dull -beyond all conception - dull.
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The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats, tho' unseen, amongst us.
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