| 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, | 5 |
| Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed; | |
| And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, | |
| Love itself shall slumber on. |
P.B.Shelley
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