Music, When Soft Voices Die.
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 heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
Gone - flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun
From the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart.
By Alfred Tennyson
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