A dream has power to poison sleep.
Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.
Interpretation
What this quote means
Poets shape and influence the world through their art, often without fully understanding the impact of their words.
This quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley emphasizes the profound role that poets play in society. They serve as intermediaries between the unexpressed inspirations of the future and the present moment, reflecting the potential and the shadows cast by what is yet to come. Poets articulate emotions and ideas that may be beyond their own comprehension, becoming powerful agents of change and enlightenment. Through their craft, they inspire others, mobilizing them toward action, even while remaining detached from the direct consequences of that inspiration. Ultimately, Shelley elevates poets to the status of legislators, suggesting that their influence shapes the moral and cultural fabric of society.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
This quote can be shared during a literary gathering to illustrate the power of poetry.
More from Percy Bysshe Shelley
All quotes →Senseless is the breast and cold _x000D_ _x000D_ Which relenting love would fold;_x000D_ _x000D_ Bloodless are the veins and chill _x000D_ _x000D_ Which the pulse of pain did fill; _x000D_ _x000D_ Every little living nerve _x000D_ _x000D_ That from bitter words did swerve _x000D_ _x000D_ Round the tortur'd lips and brow, _x000D_ _x000D_ Are like sapless leaflets now _x000D_ _x000D_ Frozen upon December's bough.
A sensitive plant in a garden grew,_x000D_ _x000D_ And the young winds fed it with silver dew,_x000D_ _x000D_ And it opened its fan_x000D_ _x000D_ like leaves to the light,_x000D_ _x000D_ and closed them beneath the kisses of night.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain The pavilion of Heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
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