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The light of midnight's starry heaven Is in those radiant eyes; The rose's crimson life has given That cheek its morning dyes.

Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face; And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace.

And yet I love thee not: thy brow Is but the sculptor's mould: It wants a shade, it wants a glow,— It is less fair than cold.