Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes | Quotes by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed, -- but it returneth.
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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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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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He hath awakened from the dream of life—
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History is a cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of man.
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Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
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Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
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All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil
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Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for songWild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night longSad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong
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Our sweetest songs are those that tell the saddest thoughts.
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The more we study, the more we discover our ignorance.
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I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
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One word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdain'd For thee to disdain it
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Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
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As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker, so an unsuccessful author turns critic
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First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears - and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust - and we die too
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O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
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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.
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Yes, marriage is hateful, detestable. A kind of ineffable, sickening disgust seizes my mind when I think of this most despotic, most unrequite...
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If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
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When hearts have one mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest;...
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A man, to be greatly good, must magine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and in many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.
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Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.
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Man's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
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The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of Heaven lay;
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