silver key of the fountain of tears,
where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild;
softest grave of a thousand fears,
where their mother, care, like a drowsy child,
is laid asleep in flowers.
percy bysshe shelley, a fragment: to music, via chatoyance
rodarte a magazine |
3 comments:
Amazing.
Sweet, sweet post.
Beautiful post and perfect image...
Catherine
xx
No, Music, thou art not the 'food of Love.'
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self,
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.
lovely image indeed
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