  This is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. I like it so i'm posting it. hope anyone reading it would like it too. 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 heapd for the beloved's bed, And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. 
