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Music, when in soft
voices
die, Vibrates in memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when rose is dead, Are heap’d for the belovéd’s bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. |
| By |
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 - 1822 |
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© Elfrida 2010
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