Percy Bysshe Shelley

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, — Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow Through public scorn, — mud from a muddy spring, — Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know, But leech-like to their fainting country cling, …

The breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, Which is a mask without it.

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night.

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

Peter was dull; he was at first Dull,—oh so dull, so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed, Still with this dulness was he cursed! Dull,—beyond all conception, dull.

Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.

Hell is a city much like London — A populous and smoky city.

O lift me from the grass! I die! I faint! I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast:

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.

The sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea: What are all these kissings worth If thou kiss not me?

Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one spirit meet and mingle — Why not I with thine?

The seed ye sow another reaps; The wealth ye find another keeps; The robes ye weave another wears; The arms ye forge another bears.

Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low?

Fame is love disguised.

Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets' food is love and fame.

Sun-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey.

Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me,

We rest. — A dream has power to poison sleep; We rise. — One wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep; Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away: It is the same! — For, be it joy or sorrow, The path of …

Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep, — that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.

The lone couch of his everlasting sleep.

Twilight, ascending slowly from the east, Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of day, Night followed, clad with stars.

Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose, With care his sweet person adorning, He put on his Sunday clothes.

I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect we trample are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.

Here I swear, and as I break my oath may Infinity Eternity blast me, here I swear that never will I forgive Christianity! It is the only point on which I allow myself to encourage revenge... Oh, how I wish I were the Antichrist, that it …