No more alone through the world's wilderness,
Although I trod the paths of high intent,
I journeyed now: no more companionless
Tags: relationships
Perhaps the only comfort which remains
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody.
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain'd
For thee to disdain it.
One hope too like dispair
For prudence to smother,
I can give not what men call love:
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And heaven rejects not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
The devotion of something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
Tags: one-word-is-too-often-profaned percy-shelly
Sounds of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass
Tags: percy-shelly to-a-skylark
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
Tags: percy-shelly to-a-skylark
(Title: To the Moon)
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,--
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Tags: percy-shelly to-the-moon
The splendors of the firmament of time
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;
Like stars to their appointed height they climb
And death is a low mist which cannot blot
The brightness it may veil.
Tags: elegy john-keats adonais
Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mincepies,
And other such ladylike luxuries.
All love is sweet, given or received...
Percy Bysshe ShelleySorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself are often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy delights by affording a shadow of the pleasure which exists in pain. This is the source also of the melancholy which is inseparable from the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of pleasure itself.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyTags: melancholy pleasure
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