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Danh ngôn của Percy Bysshe Shelley (Sứ mệnh: 6)

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.
Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
Man has no right to kill his brother. It is no excuse that he does so in uniform: he only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.
Change is certain. Peace is followed by disturbances; departure of evil men by their return. Such recurrences should not constitute occasions for sadness but realities for awareness, so that one may be happy in the interim.
The soul's joy lies in doing.
Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Familiar acts are beautiful through love.
Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.
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.
Government is an evil; it is only the thoughtlessness and vices of men that make it a necessary evil. When all men are good and wise, government will of itself decay.
The great instrument of moral good is the imagination.
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade.
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.
Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.
Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.
Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.