A dream has power to poison sleep.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The most beautiful music often expresses deep sorrow and emotional pain.
This quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley suggests that the most poignant and moving pieces of art, particularly in music, arise from the depths of human emotion, particularly sadness. It implies that the experiences of loss and sorrow can lead to profound creativity and beauty, encapsulating the idea that pain can foster artistic expression.
Themes
SongsSadnessArtEmotionBeauty
In practice
Example use cases
During a tribute to a loved one, one might say, 'As Shelley reminds us, our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts.'
More from Percy Bysshe Shelley
All quotes βSenseless 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.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
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.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
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.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
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After all, it is style alone by which posterity will judge of a great work, for an author can have nothing truly his own but his style.
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