A God made by man undoubtedly has need of man to make himself known to man.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

Alas! This is not what I thought life was. I knew that there were crimes and evil men, Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass Untouched by suffering, through the rugged glen. In mine own heart I saw as in a glass The hearts of others ... And when went among my kind, with triple brass Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed, To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woeful mass!

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

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 pleasures of his species must become his own.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

And I have fitted up some chambers there Looking towards the golden Eastern air, And level with the living winds, which flow Like waves above the living waves below.—I have sent books and music there, and all Those instruments with which high spirits call The future from its cradle, and the past Out of its grave, and make the present Latin thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, Folded within their own eternity.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

And in a mad trance Strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings We decay Like corpses in a chandelier & Grief Convulse is & consume USDA by Dayan cold hopes swarm Like worms within Our living clay

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley