Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

Percy Bysshe Shelley Poems

1. The Sepulchre Of Memory 4/1/2010
2. Dark Spirit of the Desart Rude 6/26/2015
3. To Ireland 4/1/2010
4. To The Lord Chancellor 4/1/2010
5. To Constantia 4/1/2010
6. The Spectral Horseman 4/1/2010
7. To Emilia Viviani 4/1/2010
8. To Italy 4/1/2010
9. To Mary Who Died In This Opinion 4/1/2010
10. To Mary 4/1/2010
11. To-- I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden 4/1/2010
12. To-- One Word Is Too Often Profaned 4/1/2010
13. To Harriet -- It Is Not Blasphemy To Hope That Heaven 4/1/2010
14. The Tower Of Famine 4/1/2010
15. The Viewless And Invisible Consequence 4/1/2010
16. The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812 4/1/2010
17. The Rude Wind Is Singing 4/1/2010
18. To Ianthe 4/1/2010
19. To Edward Williams 4/1/2010
20. To Harriet 4/1/2010
21. The Wandering Jew's Soliloquy 4/1/2010
22. To Mary ---- 4/1/2010
23. The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa 4/1/2010
24. To Sophia (Miss Stacey) 4/1/2010
25. To Mary Shelley 4/1/2010
26. The Woodman And The Nightingale 4/1/2010
27. The Zucca 4/1/2010
28. To Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin 4/1/2010
29. To Jane: The Recollection 4/1/2010
30. To Death 4/1/2010
31. To-- Oh! There Are Spirits Of The Air 4/1/2010
32. To Constantia, Singing 4/1/2010
33. To Jane: The Keen Stars Were Twinkling 4/1/2010
34. The Solitary 4/1/2010
35. The Past 4/1/2010
36. Ugolino 4/1/2010
37. The World's Wanderers 4/1/2010
38. To-Morrow 4/1/2010
39. To The Republicans Of North America 4/1/2010
40. The Sunset 4/1/2010
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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