Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!
–
Heed not tho’ none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
–
True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the lover is beloved.
– To -I- by William Wordsworth
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