Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

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.

Submitted: Thursday, April 01, 2010

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  • Zahra Tarabolsy (12/21/2011 12:37:00 PM)

    i wonder To... goes to whom?
    as a youngster this was my favorite, poem....and now, it still is. (Report) Reply

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