Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap'd for the belovรจd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyUnderneath Day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls
Percy Bysshe ShelleyReviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyMan's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
Percy Bysshe Shelley