Music, When Soft Voices Die

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.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Comments (9)

everything leaves a footprint, whether it's physical or spiritual it does not matter.
awesome poetry..........
One word encapsulates the feeling within this lovely poem - BEAUTIFUL
finally I find a love poem I can commit to memory
PBS writes like no other. This poem is testament to that fact. Brilliant.
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