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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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When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindu, his best friends hear no more of him.
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Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
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That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.
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Their errors have been weighed and found to have been dust in the balance if their sins were as scarlet, they are now white as snow: they have been washed in the blood of the mediator and the redeemer, Time.
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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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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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I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.
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Belief is involuntary nothing involuntary is meritorious or reprehensible. A man ought not to be considered worse or better for his belief.
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The wise want love and those who love want wisdom.
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In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.
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See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea - What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?
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The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
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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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And many an ante-natal tomb Where butterflies dream of the life to come.
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Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.
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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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A dream has power to poison sleep.
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This is Heaven, when pain and evil cease, and when the Benignant Principle, untrammelled and uncontrolled, visits in the fulness of its power the universal frame of things.
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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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So soon as this want or power [of love] is dead, man becomes the living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.
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