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

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I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers.
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Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.
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Sow seed--but let no tyrant reap Find wealth--let no imposter heap Weave robes--let not the idle wear Forge arms--in your defence to bear.
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My father Time is weak and gray With waiting for a better day See how idiot-like he stands, Fumbling with his palsied hands!
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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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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.
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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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O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below?
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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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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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For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.
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The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
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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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O! I burn with impatience for the moment of the dissolution of intolerance it has injured me.
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I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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There Is No God. This negation must be understood solely to affect a creative Deity. The hypothesis of a pervading Spirit co-eternal with the universe remains unshaken.
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Woe is me! The winged words on which my soul would pierce Into the heights of love's rare universe, Are chains of lead around its flight of fire-- I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire.
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Oh, that the wise from their bright minds would kindle Such lamps within the dome of this dim world That the pale name of priest might shrink and dwindle Into the Hell from which it first was furled.
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All love is sweet, given or received.
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