Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

Percy Bysshe Shelley Poems

281. To Harriet 4/1/2010
282. To Harriet -- It Is Not Blasphemy To Hope That Heaven 4/1/2010
283. To-- I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden 4/1/2010
284. To Ianthe 4/1/2010
285. To Ireland 4/1/2010
286. To Italy 4/1/2010
287. To Jane: The Keen Stars Were Twinkling 4/1/2010
288. To Jane: The Recollection 4/1/2010
289. To Mary 4/1/2010
290. To Mary ---- 4/1/2010
291. To Mary Shelley 4/1/2010
292. To Mary Who Died In This Opinion 4/1/2010
293. To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin 4/1/2010
294. To Night 12/31/2002
295. To-- Oh! There Are Spirits Of The Air 4/1/2010
296. To-- One Word Is Too Often Profaned 4/1/2010
297. To Sophia (Miss Stacey) 4/1/2010
298. To The Lord Chancellor 4/1/2010
299. To The Men Of England 1/13/2003
300. To The Mind Of Man 4/1/2010
301. To The Moon 1/3/2003
302. To The Moonbeam 4/1/2010
303. To The Nile 4/1/2010
304. To The Queen Of My Heart 4/1/2010
305. To The Republicans Of North America 4/1/2010
306. To William Shelley 4/1/2010
307. To William Shelley. 4/1/2010
308. To William Shelley. Thy Little Footsteps On The Sands 4/1/2010
309. To Wordsworth 1/3/2003
310. To-- Yet Look On Me 4/1/2010
311. To-Morrow 4/1/2010
312. Ugolino 4/1/2010
313. Unrisen Splendour Of The Brightest Sun 4/1/2010
314. Verses On A Cat 4/1/2010
315. Wake The Serpent Not 4/1/2010
316. War 4/1/2010
317. When A Lover Clasps His Fairest 4/1/2010
318. When Soft Winds And Sunny Skies 4/1/2010
319. When The Lamp Is Shattered 12/31/2002
320. Wine Of The Fairies 4/1/2010
Best Poem of Percy Bysshe Shelley


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


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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