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And many an ante-natal tomb Where butterflies dream of the life to come.

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
Tombs
Butterfly
Dream
Come
Many
Ante
Life
Natal
Butterflies
Tomb

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But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity Her citizens, imperial spirits, Rule the present from the past, On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set.
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.
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The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought.
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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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The wise want love and those who love want wisdom.
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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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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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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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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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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
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January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
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Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
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Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.
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Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
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Among true and real friends, all is common and were ignorance and envy and superstition banished from the world, all mankind would be friend.
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The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?
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Yes, marriage is hateful, detestable. A kind of ineffable, sickening disgust seizes my mind when I think of this most despotic, most unrequited fetter which prejudice has forged to confine its energies.
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I know The past and thence I will essay to glean A warning for the future, so that man May profit by his errors, and derive Experience from his folly For, when the power of imparting joy Is equal to the will, the human soul Requires no other heaven.
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