The man
Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys:
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate'er it touches, and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame,
A mechanised automaton.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Mots clés power freedom state anarchy

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Върху водите на реката бързотечна,
разкривен образ на града се отразява,
дълбоко неспокоен, във тръпката си вечна
се гърчи той — и все пак вечно тук остава.
Завърнеш ли се …
ти променен ще си, но не и той.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass
Stains the white radiance of Eternity

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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The flower that smiles today
Tomorrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies;
What is this world's delight?
Lightning, that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.--

Virtue, how frail it is!--
Friendship, how rare!--
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But these though they soon fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.--

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou - and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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The soul's joy lies in doing.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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