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 heap’d for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
If all the voices of men called out warning you, and you could not join your voice with their voices,
If all the faces of men were turned one way and you met them face to face, you going another,—
You still must not be persuaded to capitulation; you will remember that the road runs east as well as west.
* * *
When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And whisperings are in the dale,
The [desires del.] days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,
My face turns green & pale.
Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise;
...
