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 heap’d for the belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.– Percy Bysshe Shelley
2 thoughts on “Music, When Soft Voices Die”
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*hugs*
Thanks.