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.
Mots clés love
Podróżnik, wracający z starożytnej ziemi,
Rzekł do mnie: „Nóg olbrzymich z głazu dwoje sterczy
Wśród puszczy bez tułowia. W pobliżu za niemi
Tonie w piasku strzaskana twarz. Jej wzrok szyderczy,
Zacięte usta, wyraz zimnego rozkazu
Świadczą, iż rzeźbiarz dobrze na tej bryle głazu
Odtworzył skryte żądze, co, choć w poniewierce,
Przetrwały rękę mistrza i mocarza serce.
A na podstawie napis dochował się cało:
«Ja jestem Ozymandias, król królów. Mocarze!
Patrzcie na moje dzieła i przed moją chwałą
Gińcie z rozpaczy!» Więcej nic już nie zostało...
Gdzie stąpić, gruz bezkształtny oczom się ukaże
I piaski bielejące w pustyni obszarze.
a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought
Percy Bysshe ShelleyThe distinction between poets and prose writers is a vulgar error.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyHence all original religions are allegorical, or susceptible of allegory, and, like Janus, have a double face of false and true
Percy Bysshe Shelleyit were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its color and odor, as seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a poet
Percy Bysshe ShelleyHence the vanity of translation; it were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle of its color and odor, as seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a poet. The plant must spring again from its seed, or it will bear no flower—and this is the burden of the curse of Babel.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyI bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyWhether that lady's gentle mind,
No longer with the form combined
Which scattered love, as stars do light,
Found sadness where it left delight,
I dare not guess; but in this life
Of error, ignorance, and strife,
Where nothing is, but all things seem,
And we the shadows of the dream,
It is a modest creed, and yet
Pleasant if one considers it,
To own that death itself must be,
Like all the rest, a mockery.
That garden sweet, that lady fair,
And all sweet shapes and odors there,
In truth have never passed away:
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they.
For love, and beauty, and delight,
There is no death or change: their might
Exceeds our organs, which endure
No light, being themselves obscure.
(--Conclusion, Autumn - A Dirge)
Mots clés death change mockery
The One remains, the many change and pass; Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments---Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
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