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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
Linguist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
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Percy Byssche Shelley
Percy Shelley
Shelli Persi Bish
Lord
Men
Plough
Wherefore
Lords
Lays
Lows
England
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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
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Our Adonais has drunk poisonoh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?
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Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.
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Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
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Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - he hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep with phantoms an unprofitable strife.
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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
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Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing?
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The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.
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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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I stood within the city disinterred And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls Of spirits passng through the streets and heard the Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless halls The oracular thunder penetrating shook The listening soul in my suspended blood.
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Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
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A poet, as he is the author to others of the highest wisdom, pleasure, virtue, and glory, so he ought personally to be the happiest, the best, the wisest, and the most illustrious of men.
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For there are deeds which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.
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The babe is at peace within the womb, the corpse is at rest within the tomb. We begin in what we end.
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By all that is sacred in our hope for the human race, I conjure those who love happiness and truth to give a fair trial to the vegetable system!
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It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.
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Religion pervades intensely the whole frame of society, and is according to the temper of the mind which it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, a refuge never a check.
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Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
Percy Bysshe Shelley
