Thursday, December 4, 2003

Percy Bysshe Shelley, (1792-1822) 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. 8:17:51 PM

© Copyright 2006 Rod Kratochwill.