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There is this one thought that touched not my lips It lay dormant in my eyes; Then reached out for words to give it life, From you, and from me sometimes

Life with which from my lips to spill And drown in the arms of sweet sound. This thought self-concealing, though, is but a feeling; Just that, and nothing more profound.

Like some rose-bloom scent suspended in the wind, Voiceless and silent it stays. I sense its magic, and you feel it too, Yet a secret this feeling remains.

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