Language
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Our sincerest laughter
The desire of the moth for the star,
Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Men of England, wherefore plough
To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Hell is a city much like London.
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I met Murder on the way—
When the lamp is shattered
Most wretched men
The awful shadow of some unseen Power
I never was attached to that great sect,
A widow bird sat mourning for her love
Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
Winter is come and gone,
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
George Bernard Shaw
[Dancing is] a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.
