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To -- MAG

By Anonymous

   To -
Music, when soft voices flee,
Vibrates in the memory.
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are gathered for the beloved's bed.
And so my thoughts, when thou art gone;
Love itself must slumber on.

by s.e.m., Plymouth, MA



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