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I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields Reflection, you may come to-morrow, Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. You with the unpaid bill, Despair, You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care, I will pay you in the grave, Death will listen to your stave.

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
Listen
Bills
Yields
Gone
Reflection
Morrow
Hours
Despair
Verse
Death
Hour
Verses
Care
Sorrow
Grave
Stave
May
Fields
Yield
Fireside
Come
Sweet
Graves
Unpaid
Take
Pay
Bill
Tiresome

More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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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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I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.
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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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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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For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.
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In each human heart terror survives The ravin it has gorged: the loftiest fear All that they would disdain to think were true: Hypocrisy and custom make their minds The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. They dare not devise good for man's estate, And yet they know not that they do not dare.
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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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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.
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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
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Design must be proved before a designer can be inferred.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.
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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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The allegory of Adam and Eve eating of the tree of evil, and entailing upon their posterity the wrath of God and the loss of everlasting life, admits of no other explanation than the disease and crime that have flowed from unnatural diet.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.
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When the power of imparting joy is equal to the will, the human soul requires no other heaven.
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The breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, Which is a mask without it.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Thy words are like a cloud of winged snakes.
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O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb
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Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
Percy Bysshe Shelley