a poem

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, wen thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

To my musical friends as well as the ones who love love. This is for you.

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