Percy Bysshe Shelley

Allow me to lighten the mood with some Percy Bysshe Shelley.

To—

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 heaped for the belovèd’s bed;
And so they thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

To—

One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain’d
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,—
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

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