English Romantic Lyric Poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
English Romantic Lyric Poet
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep - he hath awakened from the dream of life - 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep with phantoms an unprofitable strife.
Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind; the foul cubs like their parents are.
Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, all that can adorn and bless art thou ? let deeds, not words, express thine exceeding loveliness.
The conceptions which any nation or individual entertains of the God of its popular worship may be inferred from their own actions and opinions, which are the subjects of their approbation among their fellow-men.
The intense atom glows a moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.
Like a glowworm golden, in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aerial blue among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view.
Men of England, heirs of glory, heroes of unwritten story, nurslings of one mighty mother, hopes of her, and one another; rise like lions after slumber in unvanquishable number, shake your chains to earth like dew which in sleep had fallen on you-ye are many ? they are few.
Nor the feathery curtains Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch.
Obedience indeed is only the pitiful and cowardly egotism of him who thinks that he can do something better than reason.
Peace. He is not dead he doth not sleep - he hath wakened from the dream of life.
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.
Stand ye calm and resolute, like a forest close and mute, with folded arms and looks which are weapons of unvanquished war.
The demagogues of the infant republic of the Christian sect, attaining through eloquence or artifice, to influence amongst its members, first violated (under the pretense of watching over their integrity) the institutions established for the common and equal benefit of all. These demagogues artfully silenced the voice of the moral sense among them by engaging them to attend, not so much to the cultivation of a virtuous and happy life in this mortal scene, as to the attainment of a fortunate condition after death; not so much to the consideration of those means by which the state of man is adorned and improved, as an inquiry into the secrets of the connection between God and the world ? things which, they well knew, were not to be explained, or even to be conceived. The system of equality which they established necessarily fell to the ground, because it is a system that must result from, rather than precede, the moral improvement of human kind.
The jealous keys of truth's eternal doors.
Like the young moon, When on the sunlit limits of the night Her white shell trembles amid crimson air, And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might, Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim form Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair.
Men of England, wherefore plough for the lords who lay ye low?
Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, from chance, and death, and mutability, the clogs of that which else might oversoar the loftiest star of unascended heaven, pinnacled dim in the intense inane.
O'er Egypt's land of memory floods are level, and they are thine, O Nile! and well thou knowest the soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil, and fruits, and poisons spring where'er thou flowest.
Perhaps the only comfort which remains is the unheeded clanking of my chains, the which I make, and call it melody.
Rise like Lions after slumber in unvanquishable number ? Shake your chains to earth like dew which in sleep had fallen on you ? Ye are many ? they are few.
Such affection and unbroken faith as temper life's worst bitterness.
The desire of the moth for the star, of the night for the morrow, the devotion to something afar from the sphere of our sorrow.
The keen stars were twinkling, and the fair moon was rising among them, dear Jane. The guitar was tinkling, but the notes were not sweet till you sung them again. As the moon's soft splendor o'er the faint cold starlight of heaven is thrown, so your voice most tender to the strings without soul had then given its own. The stars will awaken, though the moon sleep a full hour later to-night; no leaf will be shaken whilst the dews of your melody scatter delight. Though the sound overpowers, sing again, with your dear voice revealing a tone of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.