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Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity.
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
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Loves
Contemplates
Eternity
Builds
Objects
Wears
Brain
Thereby
Spirit
Contemplating
Form
Narrow
Heart
Creates
Life
Object
Sepulchre
More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley
The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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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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Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.
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Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.
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His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
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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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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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Life may change, but it may fly not Hope may vanish, but can die not Truth be veiled, but still it burneth Love repulsed, - but it returneth!
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Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
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I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.
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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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Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
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Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present the words which express what they understand not the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
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Design must be proved before a designer can be inferred.
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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
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As I lay asleep in Italy There came a voice from over the Sea, And with great power it forth led me To walk in the visions of Poesy.
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For there are deeds which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.
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