when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on

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 belovèd's bed; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 

Love itself shall slumber on. 

 

[Percy Bysshe Shelley {1792-1822} 'Music', from Love Poems, in Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets]