Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory ;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed ;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Percy Bysshe SHELLEY
Vibrates in the memory ;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed ;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Percy Bysshe SHELLEY
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