Цитаты из книг — Перси Биши Шелли

Любовь - вот суть всякой нравственности; любовь, т. е. выход за пределы своего "я" и слияние с тем прекрасным, что заключено в чьих-то, не наших, мыслях, деяниях или личности. Чтобы быть истинно добрым, человек должен обладать живым воображением; он должен уметь представить себя на месте другого и многих других; горе и…

In many mortal forms I rashly sought The shadow of that idol of my thought. And some were fair--but beauty dies away: Others were wise--but honeyed words betray: And One was true--oh! why not true to me?

And from the breezes whether low or loud, And from the rain of every passing cloud, And from the singing of the summer-birds, And from all sounds, all silence. In the words Of antique verse and high romance,--in form, Sound, colour--in whatever checks that Storm Which with the shattered present chokes the past; And in…

Mind from its object differs most in this: Evil from good; misery from happiness; The baser from the nobler; the impure And frail, from what is clear and must endure. If you divide suffering and dross, you may Diminish till it is consumed away; If you divide pleasure and love and thought, Each part exceeds the whole; and we…

True Love in this differs from gold and clay, That to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, Gazing on many truths; 'tis like thy light, Imagination! which from earth and sky, And from the depths of human fantasy, As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills The Universe with glorious…

Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burned its wings Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul formed to be blessed and bless? A well of sealed and secret happiness, Whose waters like blithe light and music…

Emily, A ship is floating in the harbour now, A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow; There is a path on the sea's azure floor, No keel has ever ploughed that path before; The halcyons brood around the foamless isles; The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles; The merry mariners are bold and free: Say, my heart's…

Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee now Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow; I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song All of its much mortality and wrong, With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through, Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy: Then…

This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale! But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom. High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed It…

My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Who fitly shalt conceive thy reasoning, Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring Thee to base company (as chance may do), Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, My last delight! tell them…

ADVERTISEMENT. The Writer of the following lines died at Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and where it was his hope to have realised a scheme of life, suited perhaps to that happier and better…

EPIPSYCHIDION. VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V--, NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF --.

Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee These votive wreaths of withered memory.

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration, the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present, the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire: the influence which is moved not but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged…

A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth…. Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted…. Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

Poets, or those who imagine and express this indestructible order, are not only the authors of language and of music, of the dance and architecture and statuary and painting: they are the institutors of laws, and the founders of civil society and the inventors of the arts of life.

Три тысячи как будто вечных лет, Исполненных бессонными часами, Мгновеньями таких жестоких пыток, Что каждый миг казался дольше года, — Сознание, что нет нигде приюта, И боль тоски, отчаянье, презренье — Вот царство, где царить досталось мне.

АТМОСФЕРА ЛЮБВИ Отрывок Есть ласка теплой нежной атмосферы Вкруг существа, чей вид для наших глаз - Услада. Мы блаженствуем без меры, Мы точно в нежной дымке, в светлый час, Когда мы с тем, кто жизни жизнь для нас.

Раз кровь прольется, это только смена Одних оков другими, гнет цепей Иных — взамен наскучившего плена,