|  | 
| SHE is neither pink nor pale, |  | 
| And she never will be all mine; |  | 
| She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, |  | 
| And her mouth on a valentine. |  | 
|  | 
| She has more hair than she needs; |  | 
| In the sun ’tis a woe to me! |  | 
| And her voice is a string of colored beads, |  | 
| Or steps leading into the sea. |  | 
|  | 
| She loves me all that she can, |  | 
| And her ways to my ways resign; |  | 
| But she was not made for any man, |  | 
| And she never will be all mine 
 
 Edna St Vincent Millay
 
 
 
 
 
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