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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Percy Bysshe Shelley
Age: 29 †
Born: 1792
Born: August 4
Died: 1822
Died: July 8
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Wherefore
Lords
Lays
Lows
England
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Men
Plough
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A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.
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Sounds of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass
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Fate,Time,Occasion,Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal love.
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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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Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
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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.
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Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
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Be your strong and simple words Keen to wound as sharpened swords, And wide as targes let them be, With their shade to cover ye.
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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
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It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed for all eternity than to conceive a being beyond its limits capable of creating it.
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The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
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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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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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War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
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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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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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The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.
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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats, tho' unseen, amongst us.
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