Percy Bysshe Shelley

The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to read more

The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

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.

For there are deeds
Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

For there are deeds
Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not,
Our sincerest laughter
read more

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.

. . . then black despair
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world read more

. . . then black despair
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.