English - Poet | August 4, 1792 - July 8, 1822
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Percy Bysshe Shelley
NatureWinterSpringWindBehind
History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
MemoriesHistoryTimeManPoem
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
WinterSpringBehindFar
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
SadThoughtTellSongsSweetestOur
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Valentine's DaySoulLipsLovers
The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.
IgnoranceMoreStudyDiscoverOur
I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.
JoyDeepWineWillTasteTonight
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.
TreeLeafThinkMoreIntellectThan
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
FearFuturePastWeep
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
SadPainLaughterThoughtLookPine
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
DarknessPoetrySweetSolitudePoet
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.
DieDebtDeadFirstDustHopes
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