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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.

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
Memories
Vibrate
Within
Odor
Dies
Slumber
Violet
Voice
Voices
Sicken
Sense
Soft
Vibrates
Music
Memory
Quicken
Live
Sweet
Violets

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Whatever may be his true and final destination, there is a spirit within him at enmity with nothingness and dissolution. This is the character of all life and being.
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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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Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity.
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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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For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.
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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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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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What is Freedom? ye can tell That which slavery is, too well For its very name has grown To an echo of your own.
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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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And many an ante-natal tomb Where butterflies dream of the life to come.
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The soul's joy lies in doing.
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I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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Let there be light! Said Liberty , And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!
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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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Tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain.
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Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing?
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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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A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.
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If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their writings!
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[L]ike thee to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring, Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn To hoar February born.
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