As for religions

"All original religions are allegorical,
or susceptible of allegory,
and, like Janus, have a double face
of false and true."

Percy Bysshe Shelley (4 August 1792 – 8 July 1822)


If a person's religious ideas
correspond not with your own,
love him nevertheless.
How different would yours have been,
had the chance of birth
placed you in Tartary or India.

Shelley,
1812, Declaration of Rights, article 25

To ————

ONE word is often profaned!
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heaven rejects not:
The desire of the moth for the star
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion for something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

To Harriet*****

WHOSE is the love that, gleaming through the world,
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?

Harriet! on thine :—thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the Inspiration of my song;
Thine are these early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.

Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
And know, though time may change and years may roll,
Each flow'ret gathered in my heart
It consecrates to thine.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Indian Serenade

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me - who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream -
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white alas!
My heart beats loud and fast
Oh, I press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Verses on a cat

A cat in distress,
Nothing more, nor less;
Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye,
As I am a sinner,
It waits for some dinner
To stuff out its own little belly.

You would not easily guess
All the modes of distress
Which torture the tenants of earth;
And the various evils,
Which like so many devils,
Attend the poor souls from their birth.

Some a living require,
And others desire
An old fellow out of the way;
And which is the best
I leave to be guessed,
For I cannot pretend to say.

One wants society,
Another variety,
Others a tranquil life;
Some want food,
Others, as good,
Only want a wife.

But this poor little cat
Only wanted a rat,
To stuff out its own little maw;
And it were as good
SOME people had such food,
To make them HOLD THEIR JAW!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Once, now and tomorrow

War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight,
The lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade,
And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean.

Krieg ist des Staatsmanns Spiel, des Priesters Lust,
Des Richters Scherz, das Handwerk des feilen Meuchlers,
Und für die gekrönten Mordbuben, deren Throne
Durch Verrat und Blut und Frevel jeder Art erkauft,
Ihr täglich Brot, die Stütze ihrer Macht.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab, Canto IV

Not by Dafydd ap Gwilym :)

Good Night

GOOD NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severes those it should unite;
Let us remain together still
Then it will be a good night

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight
Be it not said, thought, understood,
That it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

Percy B. Shelley