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William Wordsworth - To Mary
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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.
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