TO -----
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.
:: EDITOR'S COMMENT ::
Alastor and Queen Mab are brilliant poems as well, but if you reckon I'll type all that out, you're mad.
I suppose you think I should go back and type out all of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage as well.
Buy a book, you cheap bastard.