Music, when soft voice die

Music, when soft voice 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 beloved’s bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.


Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)

Andrea Jackson The Holistic Celebrant

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