Shelley

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)

She is made one with Nature: there is heard
Her voice in all her music, from the moan

Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet bird;

She is a presence to be felt and known

In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,

Spreading itself where’er that Power may move

Which has withdrawn her being to its own;

Which wields the world with never-wearied love,

Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

She is a portion of the loveliness

Which once she made more lovely.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)