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.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822
Mary Shelley's husband.
I wonder if he wrote it for his wife. The brilliant woman whose hand wrote Frankenstein at eighteen. What must it have been like to ask for the hand of a writer.
I wonder if he wrote it for his wife. The brilliant woman whose hand wrote Frankenstein at eighteen. What must it have been like to ask for the hand of a writer.
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