Maxioms by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief.
Far clouds of feathery gold,
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam
Like islands on a dark blue sea.
Far clouds of feathery gold,
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam
Like islands on a dark blue sea.
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep! He hath awaken from the dream of life!
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep! He hath awaken from the dream of life!
Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
