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.
I remembered Shelley’s poem after Susan S. recently shared the following quote as a personal favorite. I couldn’t find the author–other than that very famous Anonymous–but since it paired so well with the Shelley piece, I thought I’d run them together with a grateful wave to Susan.
The tide recedes, but leaves behind
bright seashells on the sand.
The sun goes down, but gentle warmth
still lingers on the land.
The music stops, yet echoes on
in sweet, soulful refrains.
For every joy that passes,
something beautiful remains.
Author: Unknown, found on Scrapbook.com