Friday, 22 May 2009

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

Shelley (1792-1822)

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