Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

Percy Bysshe Shelley Poems

1. Ozymandias 12/31/2002
2. Love's Philosophy 12/31/2002
3. Good-Night 1/3/2003
4. A Lament 1/3/2003
5. Mutability 12/31/2002
6. Ode To The West Wind 1/3/2003
7. To The Men Of England 1/13/2003
8. Adonais 1/13/2003
9. I Arise From Dreams Of Thee 1/3/2003
10. A Bridal Song 4/1/2010
11. The Cloud 12/31/2002
12. To A Skylark 12/31/2002
13. Music, When Soft Voices Die 1/3/2003
14. A Dialogue 4/1/2010
15. Alastor: Or, The Spirit Of Solitude 1/3/2003
16. When The Lamp Is Shattered 12/31/2002
17. An Exhortation 1/3/2003
18. England In 1819 1/3/2003
19. The Indian Serenade 12/31/2002
20. Autumn: A Dirge 12/31/2002
21. A Summer Evening Churchyard, Lechlade, Gloucestershire 12/31/2002
22. Art Thou Pale For Weariness 1/3/2003
23. A Dirge 4/1/2010
24. And Like A Dying Lady, Lean And Pale 1/1/2004
25. Archy's Song From Charles The First (A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love) 1/1/2004
26. A Fragment: To Music 4/1/2010
27. Hymn To Intellectual Beauty 1/3/2003
28. On Death 1/3/2003
29. To The Moon 1/3/2003
30. Asia: From Prometheus Unbound 1/13/2003
31. The Moon 1/4/2003
32. Death Is Here And Death Is There 4/1/2010
33. Time 1/3/2003
34. Fragment: "To The Moon" 1/20/2003
35. Bereavement 12/31/2002
36. Night 1/4/2003
37. The Fitful Alternations Of The Rain 1/3/2003
38. Time Long Past 1/3/2003
39. Remorse 1/4/2003
40. Alas! This Is Not What I Thought Life Was 5/7/2011
Best Poem of Percy Bysshe Shelley


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
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 ...

Read the full of Ozymandias


How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,

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