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 beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
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 beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
4 comments:
weiba!
jo ja habia vist algun cop les tiretes aquestes de còmic..són súper xules!
aniras a esperar els reis?? no oi?? jo espero que si...a vore si em veuen i no em porten tant carbó...tu tb hi hauries d'anar...
=)
ah...no li diguis a ta germana que espanta la clientela...poques que sóm que et deixem post...!!
- Dijo que las escaleras bajaban
hacia el sótano, ¿correcto?
- Sí.
- Y esas escaleras, ¿también subían?
Good words.
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