tinged with that envious shade, but 

 the bride rose never grows less sweet 

 or fair. 



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. 



Shelley. 



128 



