Music, when soft voices die Vibrates in the memory.
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing. A tone Of some world far from ours, where music and moonlight and feeling are one.
Are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.
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