curated by Adam Fitzgerald

Saturday, April 28, 2007

'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 heap'd for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)