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Image of rugged cliffs And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

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
Art
Rugged
Love
Slumber
Cliffs
Thou
Image
Thoughts
Shall
Gone

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The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
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Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights The fairest feelings of the opening heart, Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, And judgment cease to wage unnatural war With passion's unsubduable array.
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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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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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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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The crime of inquiry is one which religion never has forgiven.
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The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
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The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
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I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
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Peace is in the grave.
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A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively he must put himself in the place of another and of many others the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
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Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
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Till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!
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The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
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Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
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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!
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Gold is a living god and rules in scorn, All earthly things but virtue.
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Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange
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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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