Talent may be in time forgiven, but genius never

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.

Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy

Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.

Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.