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... Virtue owns a more eternal foe Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime, And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.

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
Time
Customs
Legal
Birth
Foulest
Crime
Owns
Eternal
Foe
Virtue
Custom
Faith
Fraud
Force
Bloody

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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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Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.
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The most fertile districts of the habitable globe are now actually cultivated by men for animals, at a delay and waste of aliment absolutely incapable of calculation
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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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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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Sounds of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass
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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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Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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... a wild dissolving bliss Over my frame he breathed, approaching near, And bent his eyes of kindling tenderness Near mine, and on my lips impressed a lingering kiss
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Peace is in the grave.
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Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.
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Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs And folds over the world its healing wings.
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Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.
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Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
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What do you think? Young women of rank eat - you will never guess what - garlick!
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Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
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I have drunken deep of joy.
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I love Love -- though he has wings, And like light can flee.
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