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Subject: Music, When Soft Voices Die


Author:
c (Percy Bysshe Shelley)
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Date Posted: 22:27:53 11/01/07 Thu
 Music, when soft voices die,
vibrates in the memory-
Odors, when 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.
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