Percy Shelley

I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats, tho' unseen, amongst us.

What! alive, and so bold, O earth?

Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, And hope without an object can not live.

The world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts.

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

Poets are the unacknowledged legislatures of the world.