Music, when soft voices die
Lyricist: Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Text and translations
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Life within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
are heaped, heaped for the beloved's bed;
and so thy thoughts, when thou art gone.
Love itself shall slumber on.