Less Oft Peace In Shelley's Mind, Than

History Is A Cyclic Poem Written By Time Upon The Memories Of Man.

Death Will Come When Thou Art Dead, Soon, Too Soon.

The Great Instrument Of Moral Good Is The Imagination.

Poetry Strengthens That Faculty Which Is The Organ Of The Moral Nature Of Man, In The Same Manner As Exercise Strengthens A Limb.

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, And Endurance, These Are The Seals Of That Most Firm Assurance Which Bars The Pit Over Destruction's Strength; And If, With Infirm Hand, Eternity, Mother Of Many Acts And Hours, Should Free The Serpent That Would Clasp Her With His Length; These Are The Spells By Which To Reassume An Empire O'er The Disentangled Doom.