105 ordspråk av Percy Bysshe Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley föddes den
4 augustus 1792 och dog den 8 juli
1822 - whose passionate search for personal love and social justice was gradually channeled from overt actions into poems that rank with the greatest in the English language.
Mer info via Google eller Bing. Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice.
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Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted
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Every epoch, under names more or less specious, has deified its peculiar errors.
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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
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Fear not for the future, weep not for the past
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First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears - and when these are dead, the debt is due dust claims dust - and we die too
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Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.
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Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art
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Heaven's ebon vault, studded with stars unutterably bright, through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, seems like a canopy which love has spread to curtain her sleeping world
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Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city
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Here I swear, and as I break my oath may 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 were mine to crush the Demon; to hurl him to his native Hell never to rise again / I expect to gratify some of this insatiable feeling in Poetry.
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History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
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How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.
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I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight
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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.
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