Music, when soft voices die...

"Music, when soft voices die" by P. B. Shelley

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 art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.