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.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 901 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poem: To

There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, To, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!