The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

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 belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil

If a person's religious ideas correspond not with your own, love him nevertheless

Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes - are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry.

The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasure of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.