Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

Percy Bysshe Shelley Poems

241. The Fitful Alternations Of The Rain 1/3/2003
242. The Fugitives 4/1/2010
243. The Indian Serenade 12/31/2002
244. The Invitation 1/4/2003
245. The Irishman's Song 4/1/2010
246. The Isle 4/1/2010
247. The Magnetic Lady To Her Patient 4/1/2010
248. The Mask Of Anarchy 4/1/2010
249. The Moon 1/4/2003
250. The Past 4/1/2010
251. The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa 4/1/2010
252. The Question 1/3/2003
253. The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812 4/1/2010
254. The Rude Wind Is Singing 4/1/2010
255. The Sensitive Plant 4/1/2010
256. The Sepulchre Of Memory 4/1/2010
257. The Solitary 4/1/2010
258. The Spectral Horseman 4/1/2010
259. The Sunset 4/1/2010
260. The Tower Of Famine 4/1/2010
261. The Triumph Of Life 1/1/2004
262. The Two Spirits: An Allegory 1/1/2004
263. The Viewless And Invisible Consequence 4/1/2010
264. The Wandering Jew's Soliloquy 4/1/2010
265. The Waning Moon 1/3/2003
266. The Witch Of Atlas 12/31/2002
267. The Woodman And The Nightingale 4/1/2010
268. The World's Wanderers 4/1/2010
269. The Zucca 4/1/2010
270. Time 1/3/2003
271. Time Long Past 1/3/2003
272. To ---- 1/4/2003
273. To A Skylark 12/31/2002
274. To A Star 4/1/2010
275. To Coleridge 12/31/2002
276. To Constantia 4/1/2010
277. To Constantia, Singing 4/1/2010
278. To Death 4/1/2010
279. To Edward Williams 4/1/2010
280. To Emilia Viviani 4/1/2010
Best Poem of Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ozymandias

I met a traveller 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 these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal ...

Read the full of Ozymandias

Bereavement

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,

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