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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. | |
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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. | |
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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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