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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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
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When a thing is said to be not worth refuting you may be sure that either it is flagrantly stupid - in which case all comment is superfluous - or it is something formidable, the very crux of the problem.
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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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Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.
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Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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The emptiness and folly of retaliation are apparent from every example which can be brought forward. Not only Jesus Christ, but the most eminent professors of every sect of philosophy, have reasoned against this futile superstition.
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The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats, tho' unseen, amongst us.
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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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Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
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Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
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Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, All that can adorn and bless Art thou let deeds, not words, express Thine exceeding loveliness.
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It is found easier, by the short-sighted victims of disease, to palliate their torments by medicine, than to prevent them by regimen
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I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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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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There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
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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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Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
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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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Woe is me! The winged words on which my soul would pierce Into the heights of love's rare universe, Are chains of lead around its flight of fire-- I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire.
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