Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822
Today I revisited the Classic Poetry post from July 14, listening to Natalie Merchant's evocative musical interpretations of poems past. Inspiring. Encouraging. So many things. I then recalled this Shelley poem and knew it had to be shared here, now.
Enjoy, fellow poets. Enjoy.
Music
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 belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
