Quote

Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

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
Come
Pity
Never
Measure
Thou
Wings
Ditty
Cutting
Mournful
Stay
Wilt
Pleasure
Merry
Away
Cruel

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Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
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The great secret of morals is Love or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own.
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Sow seed--but let no tyrant reap Find wealth--let no imposter heap Weave robes--let not the idle wear Forge arms--in your defence to bear.
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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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Obedience indeed is only the pitiful and cowardly egotism of him who thinks that he can do something better than reason.
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I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
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Design must be proved before a designer can be inferred.
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Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.
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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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For there are deeds which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.
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February... Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the Earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains.
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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Image of rugged cliffs And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
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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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He hath awakened from the dream of life.
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The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.
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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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I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me- who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
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Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights The fairest feelings of the opening heart, Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, And judgment cease to wage unnatural war With passion's unsubduable array.
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Till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!
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