Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

poet Percy Bysshe Shelley
#25 on top 500 poets

Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes

  • ''I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. letter, Jan. 3, 1811.
    132 person liked.
    		62 person did not like.
  • ''It were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a poet. The plant must spring again from its seed, or it will bear no flower—and this is the burthen of the curse of Babel.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    93 person liked.
    		62 person did not like.
  • ''Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    111 person liked.
    		52 person did not like.
  • ''Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    100 person liked.
    		51 person did not like.
  • ''Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    99 person liked.
    		56 person did not like.
  • ''The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    27 person liked.
    		7 person did not like.
  • ''A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    24 person liked.
    		9 person did not like.
  • ''In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred; it teaches rather self-knowledge and self- respect.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    15 person liked.
    		4 person did not like.
  • ''Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, publ. 1840).
    15 person liked.
    		8 person did not like.
  • ''A poet, as he is the author to others of the highest wisdom, pleasure, virtue, and glory, so he ought personally to be the happiest, the best, the wisest, and the most illustrious of men.''
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), British poet. A Defence of Poetry (written 1821, published 1840).
    14 person liked.
    		4 person did not like.

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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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