But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed. — John Keats Copy Share Image
“Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves,… — Percy Bysshe Shelley Copy Share Image
I don't know what you may have seen fit to tell her, Venetia, but so far as I understand it you could… — Georgette Heyer Copy Share Image
