Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.
- Frederick Tennyson
Perfect, Tender, Loud, Joys
What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone.
- Frederick Tennyson
Thought, Thy, Thee, Profit
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