Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ay, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony.

Ay, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.

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.

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

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

January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
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January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps--but, O ye hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.