English Romantic Lyric Poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
English Romantic Lyric Poet
These are two friends whose lives were undivided: so let their memory be, now they have glided under the grave; let not their bones be parted, for their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow claspest the limits of mortality. To the pure all things are pure.
We look around us ... we find that we exist, we find ourselves reasoning upon the mystery which involves our being ... we see virtue and vice, we see the light and darkness, each is separate, distinct; the line which divides them is glaringly perceptible; yet how racking it is to the soul, when enquiring into its own operations, to find that perfect virtue is very far from attainable, to find reason tainted by feeling, to see the mind when analyzed exhibit a picture of irreconcilable inconsistencies, even when perhaps a moment before, it imagined that it had grasped the fleeting Phantom of virtue.
Where art thou, beloved To-morrow? When young and old, and strong and weak, rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, thy sweet smiles we ever seek,-- in thy place--ah! well-a-day! We find the thing we fled--To-day!
Words are but holy as the deeds they cover.
The thoughts which the word "God" suggests to the human mind are susceptible of as many variations as human minds themselves. The Stoic, the Platonist, and the Epicurean, the Polytheist, the Dualist, and the Trinitarian, differ infinitely in their conceptions of its meaning. They agree only in considering it the most awful and most venerable of names, as a common term devised to express all of mystery, or majesty, or power, which the invisible world contains. And not only has every sect distinct conceptions of the application of this name, but scarcely two individuals of the same sect, who exercise in any degree the freedom of their judgment, or yield themselves with any candour of feeling to the influences of the visible world, find perfect coincidence of opinion to exist between them.
They who wore Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths of light, signs of thought's empire over thought ?their lore taught them not this, to know themselves; their might could not repress the mystery within.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams the blue Mediterranean, where he lay, lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams beside a pumice isle in Bai‘'s bay, and saw in sleep old palaces and towers quivering within the wave's intenser day, all overgrown with azure moss and flowers so sweet, the sense faints picturing them.
We must prove design before we can infer a designer.
Where eyes are shut, nothing can be seen.
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever from creation to decay, like the bubbles on a river sparkling, bursting, borne away.
The traveler, returning from an ancient land, said to me: 'Leg two giant boulder sticking Among the forest without a trunk. Nearby after them sinking in the sand shattered face. Her eyes mocking, Fierce mouth, the word of cold command testified that the sculptor well on the block boulder recreated hidden desires, which? survived the hand of a master and a mighty man heart. And on the basis of an inscription brought up alive: I am Ozymandias, king kings. Powerhouses! Look at my works, and before my glory Die in despair! Nothing more has not been ... accede, shapeless rubble comes out eyes whitened and sand in a desert area.
Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven contracted to two circles underneath their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measureless, orb within orb, and line through line inwoven.
Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, yet let's be merry: we'll have tea and toast; custards for supper, and an endless host of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, and other such ladylike luxuries.
We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; it is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, the path of its departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; nought may endure but Mutability!
Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.
The unquiet republic of the maze of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.
Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves?
Through the sunset of hope, like the shapes of a dream, what paradise islands of glory gleam!
What are numbers knit by force or custom? Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself; in it must be supreme, establishing his throne On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy of hopes and fears, being himself alone.
Where musing Solitude might love to lift her soul above this sphere of earthliness.
Worse than despair, worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, the bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; and the year on the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, is lying. Come months, come away, from November to May, in your saddest array; follow the bier of the dead cold year, and like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
This is alone Life; Joy, Empire, and Victory!