Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!
This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.
Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.
The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom.
O world! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb
How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.
The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
Within my heart is the lamp of love, And that is day!
No more let life divide what death can join together.
The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
Man who man would be, must rule the empire of himself.
I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose.
There is a harmony In autumn, and a luster in its sky...
Design must be proved before a designer can be inferred.
His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.
Hell is a city much like London A populous and smoky city
The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning.
The quick Dreams, The passion-winged Ministers of thought.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Less oft peace in Shelley's mind, Than calm in waters seen.
In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet
There is no sport in hate where all the rage Is on one side.
In fact, truth cannot be communicated until it is perceived.
I love Love -- though he has wings, And like light can flee.
a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable thought
Nothing wilts faster than laurels that have been rested upon.
Chameleons feed on light and air: Poets food is love and fame.
The crime of inquiry is one which religion never has forgiven.
For love and beauty and delight, there is no death nor change.
The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed flattering.
Of Planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.
Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low?
Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope.
The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.
It is among men of genius and science that atheism alone is found.
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.
Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
I know the cause of all human disappointment -- worldly prejudice.
Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow.
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.