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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 belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

– Percy Bysshe Shelley

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2 Comments

  1. Peg wrote:

    *hugs*

    Wednesday, February 18, 2009 at 8:18 pm | Permalink
  2. Thanks.

    Wednesday, February 18, 2009 at 8:38 pm | Permalink