Music, when soft voices die

September 22, 2010 at 2:03 am
filed under poetry
Tagged ,

A poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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.

no comments

RSS / trackback