O life filled with romance,

O man flooded with poetry-light,

Thy volcano-will devoure

Thy critics’ python-night.

Thy “Ode to the Skylark”

And “Prometheus Unbound”,

“Adonais”, tearful Adonais,

On all brain-fields shall be found.

While sailing thy boat lost thee,

A sad story, indeed.

But thy pen’s heights and depths

Remained, the world to feed.

 Excerpt from Philosopher-Thinkers: The Power-Towers Of The Mind And Poet-Seers: The Fragrance-Hours Of The Heart In The West  by Sri Chinmoy

Quotes by Shelley

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.

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All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. They who inspire is most are fortunate, As I am now: but those who feel it most Are happier still.

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All of us, who are worth anything, spend our manhood in unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth.

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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.

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Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

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Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, all that vain men imagine or believe, or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, we descanted.

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Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.

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Familiar acts are beautiful through love.

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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.

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He has outsoared the shadow of our night; envy and calumny and hate and pain, and that unrest which men miscall delight, can touch him not and torture not again; from the contagion of the world’s slow stain, he is secure.

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History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

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How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.

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I think that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are in themselves arguments more conclusive than any which can be adduced that some vast intellect animates Infinity.

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In a drama of the highest order there is little food for censure or hatred; it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect.

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Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.