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Music, when the soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when the sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley~
(1792-1822) |