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 heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Back to Percy Bysshe Shelley
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.