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Sometimes, when music speaks,
The dead return. For one sweet hour
The fields of youth around me flower:
Life's warm blood tinges ghostly lips and cheeks.
But when the music fails, then oh!
Gone are the flowers, fled are the ghostly folk—
It is as if from summer dreams one woke
Upon a world of snow.
The dead return. For one sweet hour
The fields of youth around me flower:
Life's warm blood tinges ghostly lips and cheeks.
But when the music fails, then oh!
Gone are the flowers, fled are the ghostly folk—
It is as if from summer dreams one woke
Upon a world of snow.
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