Percy Bysshe Shelley

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness.

In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.

Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret.

Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.

Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Familiar acts are beautiful through love.

How many a rustic Milton has passed by Stifling the speechless longings of his heart In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies no longer tameless then To mould a pin or fabricate a nail!

If Winter comes can Spring be far behind?

Fear not for the future weep not for the past.

Man who man would be must rule the empire of himself.

I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.

How many a rustic Milton has passed by Stifling the speechless longings of his heart In unremitting drudgery and care! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled His energies no longer tameless then To mold a pin or fabricate a nail!

That orbed maiden with white fire laden Whom mortals call the moon.

January grey 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.

Hail to thee blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert That from Heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

See! the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother And the sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea: - What are all these kissings worth If thou kiss not me?