Percy Bysshe Shelley
To-- 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.
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Comments about this poem (To-- Music, when soft voices die by Percy Bysshe Shelley )
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