Shelley fascinates me. I love his Ozymandias and this too is brilliant... though quite a contrast to it. In Ozymandias we see the death of human achievement - nothing lasts. Here there is some echo, there are fingerprints...
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 belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.