I was flipping through a book of poems and came upon one I read over fifteen years ago. It was one of the loveliest poems I’d ever read and I was glad to find that it still had some effect on me after so many years of cynicism.
Music When Soft Voices Die
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.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley