The Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, with His Life

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Página 130 - Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Página 47 - While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Through many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin, And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed ; I was not heard : I saw them not. When musing deeply on the lot Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing All vital things that wake to bring News of birds and blossoming, Sudden thy shadow fell on me — I shrieked, and clasped my hands in...
Página 129 - O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast: Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last ! Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines — yet no less a poet than Shelley is their author.
Página 70 - Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, And our veins beat together; and our lips, With o'ther eloquence than words, eclipse The soul that burns between them...
Página 163 - 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 heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
Página 133 - I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medicine are mine, All light of art or nature; — to my song, Victory and praise in their own right belong.
Página 220 - But thou art fled Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled ! The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, The child of grace and genius. Heartless things Are done and said i...
Página 61 - You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more.
Página 123 - I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? — And I replied, No, not thee!
Página 58 - 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...

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