The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves,… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
“it were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its color and… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
It were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its color and… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
“Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
Titles are tinsel, power a corrupter, glorya bubble, and excessive wealth a libel on its possessor. — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
“Poets and philosophers are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.” — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing? — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
The practice of utter sincerity towards other men would avail to no good end, if they were incapable of practising it towards their own… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow claspest the limits of mortality. — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
Senseless is the breast and cold Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill;… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share
