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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. .....To-- by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
More Archived Love Poems: 1 2 3 4 5
Saturday, 21-Nov-2009 01:39:18 GMT | 
