Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.

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

Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year.

The more we study, the more we discover our ignorance.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

A man, to be greatly good, must magine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and in many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own.

We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts, have their root in Greece.