Music, When Soft Voices Die.

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 are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

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This is about beautiful poetry, my immense liking for Shelley, and my new-found love of a camera. There is more than one way to look at art. There are far more to create it. But only one way to experience it. With all of your senses, and all of your self.