P. B. Shelley Quotes
Most popular P. B. Shelley Quotes
Poet's food is love and fame.
Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
All love is sweet, given or returned.
The greatest secret of morals is love.
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
That sweet bondage which is freedom's self.
Where is perfection? Where I cannot reach.
The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
Man who man would be, Must rule the empire of himself.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
The greatest instrument of moral good is the imagination.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
The world's great age begins anew, the golden years return.
We want the creative faculty to imagine that which we know.
Where is the love, beauty and truth we seek, but in our mind?
Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches.
There are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.
As in the soft and sweet eclipse, When soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, stains the white radiance of eternity.
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
Nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one spirit meet and mingle.
Peace, peace! It is not dead, it doth not sleep — it hath awakened from the dream of life.
Kings are like stars — they rise and set, they have the worship of the world, but no repose.
A Poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness, and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
Till the Future dares forget the Past, this fate and fame shall be an echo and a light unto eternity!
Ah! what a divine religion might be found out, if charity were really made the principle of it, instead of faith.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory — Odors, when sweet violets sicken, live within the sense they quicken.
Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches; and obedience, bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame, a mechanized automation.
