Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, June 17, 2004) Originally published 1820. Advertisements
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from “A Defence of Poetry,” 1820, Toward the Open Field: Poets on the Art of Poetry 1800-1950, ed. Melissa Kwasny (Wesleyan University Press, 2004)
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belovèd’s bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. — Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Music when Soft Voices Die… Continue reading Percy Bysshe Shelley
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. ― Percy Bysshe Shelley, from The Masque of Anarchy: Written on Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester. (1819)
I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on… Continue reading Percy Bysshe Shelley
We – are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar; Such difference without discord, as can make Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake As trembling leaves in a continuous air? — Percy Bysshe Shelley, from “Epipsychidion.” (1821)
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. ― Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Defence of Poetry and Other Essays. (Hard Press November 3, 2006) Originally published 2001.