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My Love
By Charles Harpur
She was not beautiful, they said,
The cold of heart and stern of head,
Who measure by some given line
The meet, the graceful, and the fine:
But there was something round her being
That gifted me with rarer seeing;
And there was something in her voice
That made my very soul rejoice
With an exceeding joy—for She
Was more than beautiful to me.
I asked not, are her glances bright?
I felt them lively in their light:
I asked not, is her visage fair?
I felt a soul of sweetness there:
I asked not, is her bosom swelling?
It was my fancy’s dearest welling:
I asked not, is her form complete?
My heart was knelling at her feet,
To feel,—and ‘twas enough,—that She
Was more than beautiful to me.
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