His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
Percy Shelley (1792 - 1822)
Source: Letter to Maria Gisborne
Contributed by: Zaady
How wonderful is Death! Death and his brother Sleep.
Source: Queen Mab. i.
I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
Source: Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Stanza 4.
I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.
Source: Rarely, rarely comest Thou.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
Source: The Cloud, 1792 – 1822
A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.
Source: The Witch of Atlas. Stanza 5.
A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.
Source: Adonais. xxxii.
A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
Source: The Sensitive Plant, 1820
All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. . . . . . . They who inspire it most are fortunate, As I am now; but those who feel it most Are happier still.
Source: Prometheus Unbound. Act ii. Sc. 5.
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.
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