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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!

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
Might
Return
Dregs
Must
Rest
Drain
Men
Dies
Drains
World
Lasts
Prophecy
Last
Weary
Hate
Bitter
Death
Cease
Past
Kill

More quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
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The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings.
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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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Underneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
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This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.
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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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This, and no other, is justice: — to consider, under all the circumstances and consequences of a particular case, how the greatest quantity and purest quality of happiness will ensue from any action ... there is no other justice.
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Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.
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Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
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How beautiful is sunset when the glow Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
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Sometimes it's better to put love into hugs than to put it into words. Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
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Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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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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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
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All of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.
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I Fall upon the thorns of life.
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Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
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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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The man of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys.
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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.
Percy Bysshe Shelley