Quote

Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, - a people starved and stabbed in the untilled field.

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
Like
Blind
Starved
People
Neither
Cling
Fields
Rulers
Blood
Drop
Without
Tyranny
Leech
Country
Till
Leeches
Feel
Blow
Fainting
Feels
Field
Stabbed

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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
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The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.
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Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
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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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Change is certain. Peace is followed by disturbances departure of evil men by their return. Such recurrences should not constitute occasions for sadness but realities for awareness, so that one may be happy in the interim.
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A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively he must put himself in the place of another and of many others the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
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I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.
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He hath awakened from the dream of life.
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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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This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.
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Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
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Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.
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Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.
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O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb
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O cease! must hate and death return, Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
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Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove, Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother's hate, Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: He bears a load which nothing can remove, A killing, withering weight.
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O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below?
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... Virtue owns a more eternal foe Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime, And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.
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