The spider spreads her webs, whether she be / In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; ...

[larryhammer]

... The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves
His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves;
So I, a thing whom moralists call worm,
Sit spinning still round this decaying form,
From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought—

To mark today's birthday of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822), the Forgotten English daily calendar compiles this selection of judicious assessments by acquaintences:

"With his speculative opinions, I have nothing in common, nor desire to have."

—Lord Byron, 1822

"His voice was the most obnoxious squeak I ever was tormented with."

—Charles Lamb, 1822

"No one was ever wiser or better for reading Shelley."

—Charles Lamb, 1824

"He was a liar and a cheat; he paid no regard to truth, nor to any kind of moral obligation. It was mortifying to discover this for I never saw a youth of whom I could have hoped better things."

—Robert Southey, 1830 (posthumous letter)

"He had a fire in his eye, a fever in his blood, a maggot in his brain, a hectic flutter in his speech, which mark out the philosophical fanatic."

—William Hazlitt, 1821

Intro quote from "Letter to Maria Gisborne," for which I have a perverse fondness.

---L.