Plug in the words here and away we go.--By Roger Quilter
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.
Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
