A dream has power to poison sleep.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed for all eternity than to conceive a being beyond its limits capable of creating it.
Interpretation
The quote suggests it is simpler to believe in an eternal universe than to imagine a creator outside its existence.
Percy Bysshe Shelley highlights a philosophical dilemma regarding the origins of the universe. He implies that the notion of the universe having no beginning, existing for eternity, is easier to accept than the complexity of a creator being that exists outside the universe's parameters. This invites contemplation on the nature of existence and the limits of human understanding in grasping the concept of creation.
In practice
In a philosophical debate about the existence of God.
A dream has power to poison sleep.
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.
Only the shallow know themselves.
We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.
We believed in God, trusted in man, and lived with the illusion that every one of us has been entrusted with a sacred spark.
Because neither she nor Port had ever lived a life of any kind of regularity, they had both made the fatal error of coming hazily to regard time as non-existent. One year was like another year. Eventually everything would happen.
The enemy resembles us. Therefore, he needs to be approached not as an assembly of 'targets' to be destroyed one by one; but as a living, intelligent entity capable of acting and reacting.
I'm interested in non-fiction, but a form of it which is very badly behaved, which doesn't define itself as straight-ahead journalism or memoir. It blurs boundaries, plays fast and loose with the truth - not to be silly, whimsical or lazy, but to get greater purchase on what it feels like to be alive.
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