Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

To... (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 heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

1. The Fitful Alternations of the Rain
2. Wine Of The Fairies
3. From the Arabic, an Imitation
4. I Would Not Be A King
5. Bereavement

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