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Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Music by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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 belov├Ęd's bed:
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

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