EN20120704_3733b

EN20120704_3733b

Morning

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.

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About ozkamal

I'm 17 & I live in Pakistan!! Apparently that alone is a huge achievement.
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