To ——

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822) · 1812 English

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 belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

More poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Question

I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring;
And gentle odours led my steps astray, …
Ode to the West Wind

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, …
To a Skylark

hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert—
That from heaven or near it …
The Cloud

I Bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid …