Percy Bysshe Shelley

And the wand-like lily which lifted up,
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, read more

And the wand-like lily which lifted up,
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

How many a rustic Milton has passed by,
Stifling the speechless longings of his heart,
In unremitting read more

How many a rustic Milton has passed by,
Stifling the speechless longings of his heart,
In unremitting drudgery and care!
How many a vulgar Cato has compelled
His energies, no longer tameless then,
To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail!

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but read more

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow.