English Romantic Lyric Poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
English Romantic Lyric Poet
The rich have become richer, and the poor have become poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and Charybdis of anarchy and despotism.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, daisies, those pearl?d arcturi of the earth, the constellated flower that never sets; faint oxlips; tender bluebells at whose birth the sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets its mother?s face with heaven-collected tears, when the low wind, its playmate?s voice, it hears.
Thou comest as the memory of a dream, which now is sad because it hath been sweet.
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, Ocean of Time, whose water of deep woe are brackish with the salt of human tears! Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow claspest the limits of mortality! And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore, treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, who shall put forth on thee, unfathomable sea?
When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.
Winter is come and gone, but grief returns with the revolving year.
The seed ye sow, another reaps; the wealth ye find, another keeps; the robes ye weave, another wears; the arms ye forge, another bears.
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear, and bitter poison within thy tear.
Thou demandest, What is love? It is that powerful attraction towards all that we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another?s; if we feel, we would that another?s nerves should vibrate to our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart?s best blood. This is love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with everything which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness.
Until the mind can love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the unconscious passenger tramples into dust.
When noon is past, there is a harmony in autumn, and a lustre in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
With hue like that when some great painter dips his pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.
The silver key of the fountain of tears.
There is no sport in hate where all the rage is on one side.
Thou dirge of the dying year, to which this closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, vaulted with all thy congregated might.
We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts have their root in Greece.
When soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
With respect to the miracles which these biographers have related, I have already declined to enter into any discussion on their nature or their existence. The supposition of their falsehood or their truth would modify in no degree the hues of the picture which is attempted to be delineated.
The soul of Adonais, like a star, beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.
There the sea I found Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slumber bound.
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal. Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood by all, but which the wise, and great, and good interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
We know not what we do when we speak words.
When the lamp is shattered the light in the dust lies dead ? when the cloud is scattered, the rainbow's glory is shed.
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.
The sun is set; the swallows are asleep; the bats are flitting fast in the gray air; the slow soft toads out of damp corners creep; and evening's breath, wandering here and there over the quivering surface of the stream, wakes not one ripple from its silent dream.