Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory---
Odors, 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.
.....To-- by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
Short Love Poems
More Archived Love Poems: 1 2 3 4 5
Saturday, 25-May-2013 01:18:14 GMT