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A Year of Poetry – Day 297

O you, far colder, whiter
Than she who makes less fair
The stars with shining there:
Her purest silver cannot dim
Nor any cloud, or rain or wind,
Your sweet brightness, lovely eyes.
Would you but turn to me, with delight,
I should be happy, and my life a dream.

— Torquato Tasso, O You, Far Colder, Whiter

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