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The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley: Complete in One Volume
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Visualització completa - 1861
beams Beatrice beautiful beneath beside blood blue breath bright calm child clouds cold dark dead death deep delight dream earth eyes fair fear feel fell fire flame flow flowers gentle grave green grew hair hand hear heard heart heaven hope hour human Italy knew lady land leaves light lips live lone look mighty mind moon morning mother mountains move nature never night o'er ocean once pain pale pass past Peter rest round ruin scorn seemed shadow shapes silent slaves sleep smile soft soon soul sound speak spirit spring stand stars stood strange stream sweet tears thee thine things thou thou art thought Till tower truth turned voice wandering waves weep wide wild wind wings woods youth
Pàgina 483 - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Pàgina 243 - To suffer woes which hope thinks infinite ; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night ; To defy power which seems omnipotent ; To love and bear ; to hope till hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates ; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent ; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great, and joyous, beautiful and free ; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory ! NOTE ON PROMETHEUS UNBOUND, BY MRS.
Pàgina 481 - O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)...
Pàgina 574 - The One remains, the many change and pass : Heaven's light for ever 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!
Pàgina 380 - ... trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Pàgina 499 - Are each paved with the moon and these. I 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. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The...
Pàgina 602 - Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Pàgina 501 - Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Pàgina 595 - ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it; One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, — The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?